The Truth About Sneaking Out of the House

The screen on my second story bedroom window popped out pretty easily. I know this because I dislodged it many times in high school so that I could sneak out in the middle of the night to drink beers and kiss cute boys in the sand dunes of the beach. On the few times I got caught, the things I'd snuck out to do had rarely been worth the repercussions. And by repercussions, I mean that my mom would show up at some party to drag me home, humiliating the hell out of me in front of everyone I knew.

So I was a little hesitant when one of my best friends from Del Mar came to spend the night and convinced me that we should sneak out. Because she was beautiful but didn’t know it, she managed to snag one of the cutest and least obtainable boys on the island. He had planned to host a party that would go all night and her parents would never let her stay out past curfew. But she knew how easy it was to sneak out of my house.

Problem solved.

And even though I had reservations, I wasn’t very hard to convince back then. Also, my friend grew up to be a lawyer so I think she was honing in on her skills of persuasion at sixteen. “Such-and-such might be there,” she told me, mentioning a guy I was crushing on pretty hard. “Your mom’s been asleep for loads. She’ll never even know we’re gone,” she promised.

So, shortly after midnight, we popped the screen off my window, hoisted our mini-skirted legs over to the stairs beneath, and ran around the corner to her awaiting red convertible Volkswagen Cabriolet. We drove through the dark of the night, top down, blasting the Violent Femmes, all the way down The Strand until we hit the Coronado Cays.

The party was in full swing when we got there but as I looked around at all the Drakkar Noir-smelling, U2-obsessed, hair-gelled dudes smoking cigarettes, I wasn’t so into it. Where were the hot skater boys? Where were the shaggy-haired surfers in their 4-paneled Quiksilver board shorts and their V-shaped backs? Where were the punk dudes who always made me laugh? This party sucked! Also, why were all the lights off?

My friend’s new boyfriend came over, squinting through the darkness in the living room, and handed us beer in red Solo cups (so predictable, I know). Eventually my friend and her dude wandered off down the hallway to go make out somewhere.

And then I was alone.

I plopped down on the couch, wondering if anyone would talk to me. Or if I even wanted them to. There were half a dozen drunk girls from Arizona, most of them older than me, all wearing Guess jeans and oversized Forenza sweaters. They barely nodded a hello, if at all. I sat there hugging my sweatshirt, trying to blend into the chocolate brown suede of the couch. The dudes hanging out in the backyard, their faces illuminated by the turquoise glow of the swimming pool lights, smoked cigarettes and talked about cars and pussy. I was pretty sure I couldn't jump into that conversation so, instead, I kept my eye on the green-glowing digital clock of the microwave.

We’d been gone 49 minutes and I was wondering if my mom had figured out that I was gone yet. I started in with a predictable nervous foot jiggle, my flip-flop almost slipping from my toes, as I watched the clock, willing the minutes to pass here but to stand still at home so that I could sneak back into my house and between the cool covers of my summer sheets undetected.

I had no desire to drink the beer in my red Solo cup. That night happened to fall during one of the months (Weeks? Days? Hours?) where I briefly flirted with the idea of not drinking so I was on kind of an upswing with my mom, keeping my shit together, being respectful and staying out of trouble. I was torn. I wanted to be a friend to my friend and go with her to the party so she could see the boy she liked, but I also didn’t want to screw up my good record.

As the minutes passed, I had that epiphany moment of: Why am I doing this? By the way, it would’ve been nice if my brain had asked that question more often when I was in high school. It would’ve been nice if it had asked that question before a friend and I got into a car with some boys we’d just met to drive to the top of Mt. Soledad and drink tequila. But it hadn’t. The moments where my brain turned on in high school were so rare and precious that it was practically screaming at me as I sat on that chocolate suede couch staring at the microwave clock. It shook me and implored me to listen. What’s in this for you? You are sitting alone, like a total loser, and you’re just going to go home and get in trouble. What’s the point?

High on conviction, I stomped off down the hallway and yanked my friend away from her boyfriend.

“I want to go home,” I said.

I knew the words I spoke were disappointing as soon as they hit the air between us, as soon as I saw the look on her face. And if we’d just been in town instead of four miles down the highway in the Coronado Cays, I could’ve just walked home and climbed back through my window by myself. But we were deep into the Cays and the buses had stopped running and I needed a ride.

“There’s nothing in this for me,” I said.

My friend glared at me. “God! You are so selfish.”

The words stung. I felt them in my heart. But I was also pissed. We fought, loudly, and a crowd gathered. Neither of us would ever hit each other, that wasn’t us, but the verbal insults were flying.

I realize that I’d said what sounded like the most selfish thing anybody could ever say, but aren’t most teenagers selfish? Weren’t we both equally selfish that night? What my sixteen-year-old self couldn’t convey was that I was in a good place with my mom. I’d gone a long time without screwing up and I wanted to stay out of trouble. But that was so geeky. So uncool. And I didn’t want to say words like that out loud. So I went with being a selfish bitch instead, demanding my friend drive me home.

She told her cute boyfriend we were leaving. He shrugged his shoulders at her. It was his way of saying: If you leave, I can’t promise you I won’t make out with someone else. It was a shitty thing for him to do, and it played on every insecurity she had. Fearful of that, she decided she’d drive me home and return to the party before he could change his mind.

We walked in silence to her car and I tried to apologize. She just shook her head at me in disappointment. I’d totally let her down. But I wished she could understand that she had let me down, too. We drove back up The Strand but we didn’t blast the radio this time. There was no hint of excitement anymore. We just squinted through the fog rolling in off the ocean. It made it hard to see the cars in front of us. I was relieved when we finally turned into the back alley behind my house.

I told her to have fun and that I’d cover for her if we hadn’t already been discovered. She squealed off as soon as I shut the passenger side door.

I was grateful to find the lights off at my house. I popped my window screen out and climbed back inside. All was quiet. There was no sign that my mom had disturbed the pile of clothes I’d shoved under the covers to make it look like I was in bed. I put on my pajamas and crawled between the sheets.  Phew. I’d made it.

A few hours later, my friend came back. She tapped on the window and I got up and popped the screen out for her. We didn’t speak. But it was obvious by the way her eyes sparkled that it had all been worth it. She crawled into her sleeping bag, smelling of cigarette smoke and all night party and we both fell asleep.

That was years ago and I’ve forgiven my friend, of course. And she’s forgiven me. I mean, I totally get it. But I had to ask her about it when I knew I was going to write this.

“That was a weird night and I made a typical teenage choice,” she sighed. “But I’ve never kissed a prettier boy. And it's a sweet memory except for the part about me being an asshole.”

I told her that I understood and I had been jealous and insecure. Because the truth is, if the roles had been reversed that night, and that cute boy had been after me instead, I know I would have done the exact same thing. I would’ve had no problem being the asshole.

Question: What's your best story about sneaking out?

© Copyright 2012  Marisa Reichardt. All Rights Reserved.

The Truth About The Juicy Fruit Tree

I spent most of my childhood in a house on a cul-de-sac across the street from the mouth of a canyon. In that canyon, my friends and I would build forts, slide down dirt hills on flattened cardboard boxes or travel through as a shortcut to school. The canyon wasn’t without its dangers, of course. There were rattlesnakes, coyotes, pot-smoking teenagers and pervy older dudes who flashed their penises at little kids walking home from school.

But for the most part, it was nature in all its glory: dirt, Eucalyptus trees, hills, rocks and vines.

And one summer day, the canyon was also where my dad and I spent the afternoon in search of the elusive Juicy Fruit tree.

Do you remember the commercial? From the ‘70s? Where packs of Juicy Fruit gum literally grew on trees? As a nod to their juicy good flavor? I told my dad that I liked the commercial even though I knew it couldn’t possibly be real.

“I don’t know about that,” he told me. “I think I saw one of those trees in the canyon one time.”

At seven years old, the canyon seemed vast and unending. The idea that the Juicy Fruit tree might be in there seemed like a very real possibility, especially with the way my dad was selling me on it. Who knew what we might find if we just walked far and wide enough? Perhaps he had seen corners of the canyon that I hadn’t. Perhaps he knew something I didn’t. Although I recognized that look that he got in his eyes when he was talking story, I was desperate to believe in the Juicy Fruit tree. I was desperate to believe his words.

“Let’s go find it!” I said.

He hedged a little, saying that he couldn’t remember exactly where he’d seen the tree. “It might take all afternoon,” he warned.

Of course I had all afternoon. I was a little kid and it was summer. The days lasted forever. He suggested we take a pair of binoculars (the diehard Jack Murphy Stadium-going part of him had many) and wear good walking shoes. I decided we needed cookies, too. He agreed.

After getting all of our supplies, I took my dad’s hand in mine and we walked across the street to the mouth of the canyon to begin our hunt.

The entrance to the canyon was a sloping hill, flanked on either side by the houses of my friends. The hill got steeper about halfway down. Near the bottom of the hill, kids from my cul-de-sac and I would build forts. We’d sweep away the leaves and use rocks to outline our pseudo home. We’d pile leaves in the back for a makeshift bed, hopeful that one day we might be lucky enough to convince our parents to let us actually camp out in our fort overnight. It never happened. Because of the coyotes and all.

“Which way should we go?” my dad asked me as we stood next to the fort.

I knew that straight ahead would only take me to my elementary school. There definitely wasn’t a Juicy Fruit tree there. My principal would never allow it. We couldn’t wear open-toed shoes on campus let alone chew gum! East led to another street that led to school via a longer route. Again, no thanks.

I figured west was the way to go. West was the part of the canyon that I had explored the least. Traveling far enough, it led to Hoyt Park where we used to spend every 4th of July until our cul-de-sac got wise and starting throwing block parties.

We were five minutes into our adventure and I was already hungry so my dad and I dove into the oatmeal cookies we had brought along. Every few minutes, my dad would convince me that the tree was just up ahead, maybe around that next bend. It never was. But we found so many other things along the way. I pointed out holes that I was sure belonged to rattlesnakes. He pointed out birds up in the trees, squirrels and the barbecue smoke wafting into the air from someone’s backyard. The faraway sound of an ice-cream truck made me want to travel faster.

At last, we reached the edge of the canyon. Looking across the street to Hoyt Park, the disappointing truth of not having found the Juicy Fruit tree sunk in.

My dad shrugged his shoulders and looked at me. “Maybe it was in the other direction,” he said.

We turned around and did the same thing going east. Stopping to explore along the way. Collecting tree branches for walking sticks. We passed the hill that led to our house and checked off the backyards of each neighbor’s house as we passed. At last we reached as far as we could go in the other direction. Again, we’d found nothing.

“It will be dark soon,” my dad told me. “Your mom probably has dinner waiting.”

I agreed that we’d done all that we could. Maybe tomorrow we could try again. Maybe we could bring my brother. He was a good climber and he could shimmy up the trunk of a tree and look at things from a different angle.

As we made our way up that final hill of the canyon that would lead us home, my dad stopped at the wooden bench at the top. He motioned for me to sit down next to him. Maybe neither of us was ready to go home yet. Maybe we needed to go over our adventure in finer detail. Or maybe we just needed to listen to the silence. I loved that bench because my dad would often sit there on weekend afternoons to whittle down stubs of wood with his pocketknife. The neighborhood kids would gather around him (for real, he was just that kind of dude), anticipating and excited to see whatever final product he was going to wow us with. There was one day when he whittled and whittled and whittled away. In the end, it was a toothpick. Yes, a toothpick. Because his whittling sessions weren’t about the final product, they were about what happened in between the start and the finish. They were about the stories he would share, the jokes he would tell and the songs he would get us all to sing.  

That day in the canyon, searching for the Juicy Fruit tree hadn’t been about the final product either. It had been about the hours we’d spent in between, talking about school and The Fonz and his memories of me as a baby and the memories of his own childhood.

“We have all the time in the world,” he’d told me. And I’d believed him.

I believed most everything he told me. 

© Copyright 2012  Marisa Reichardt. All Rights Reserved

The Truth About My Bolero Hat

This hat. Seriously. This. Hat.

Don’t be jealous. You know you are so jealous.

I stumbled across this picture the other day and decided I needed to talk about it. Here’s why: This picture, that night, is the last time I ever wore that hat. And I so loved that hat.

I wanted that hat desperately. Like with every fiber of my being. It was from The Limited and I’d told my mom it was what I wanted for Christmas. I remember the giant square box under the tree. I remember the gold wrapping paper and the silver ribbon. I remember unwrapping the hat, pulling aside the store-stamped tissue paper, and putting it on my head on Christmas morning. I remember my brother laughing.

He’s just a stupid boy who doesn’t know the first thing about fashion, I thought.

It was 1988. And I was sure I knew what from what and cool from cool. And that hat was fucking cool.

This picture is from New Year’s Eve, by the way. And that is one of my very best friends standing next to me. Please note that she is wearing mittens. The bitter cold of a San Diego winter required mittens. No jacket, mind you. Just mittens. I am also particularly fond of the bracelet she is wearing because I'm pretty sure she got it from a street vendor in TJ. I’m wondering if she purchased it some night on Avenida Revolución as we drunkenly stumbled from Mr. Crown’s to the border.

But the hat. The. Hat.

I got all dressy dressy because you know, New Year’s Eve and shit. I remember asking my mom to take this picture. Why we decided to cram ourselves into a tiny hallway next to the wet bar instead of the wide-open wall-to-wall carpeting of the living room, I have no idea. But whatever. Here’s the picture. And here’s the thing:

I was really proud of that hat. I was really stoked on my look.

After my mom took this picture, my friend and I drove to the house of another friend to pick her up for a party. I have no idea why, but she wasn’t home. What high schooler doesn’t stay home when they know their friends are coming by to pick them up for a party? Not me, obviously.

So my friend’s dad opened the door and I stood there on the doorstep, in my hat, thinking I looked so bitchin’. And he got this little smirk on his face, like maybe he was trying to stifle a laugh or something.

Because did you see the picture? Of the hat? Shall I give you time to revisit?

Because really. What was I thinking?

So… my friend wasn’t home, blah blah blah, we went to the party without her. She eventually showed up and informed me that her dad had informed her of something.

“My dad said Zorro stopped by.” She gestured at my head. “You know, because of the hat.”

Wait, what? My super cool awesome hat wasn’t so super cool and awesome?

Did I actually look kind of, I don’t know, stupid?

I wasn’t the only person at the party who had that hat on. It was kind of the trend of the Christmas of  '88. But once my friend told me what her dad had said, I decided I looked stupider than anyone else in the hat. Why did I even care what a parent thought? What parent knew anything about fashion? Come on.

Seriously.

We all looked stupid. Why did I think I was the only one?

My mom once told me how my brother and I were different. She broke it down simply: If you went outside and someone told you your shirt was ugly, you’d run back in the house and change your shirt. If someone told your brother his shirt was ugly, he’d say, “I don’t care. I like it." End of story.

Brother. Sister. That analogy says a lot, really.

So, not surprisingly, my hat met the top shelf of my closet that night and there it stayed. 

A couple of years ago, my friend with the mittens posted this very picture of us on the website for our 20-year high school reunion. I remember coming across it and wanting to die. I was mortified all over again. I had forgotten about the hat, cramming the memory of it into a deep dark crevice of my brain. I wanted everyone else to forget it, too. But how could they when there was a picture up to remind them?

Tonight, I stumbled across the picture again. And this time it made me smile. And I thought: Well, goddam, if there’s anything else I can air out here on Young Adultish, it’s the fact that I wore this stupid fucking hat in public.

So here you go.

Here’s me. Here’s my hat.

All proud and truthful and shit.

Enjoy.

Question: What is your biggest high school fashion faux pas?


© Copyright 2012  Marisa Reichardt. All Rights Reserved

The Truth About The 4th of July

To tell you the truth, which is what I do here, 4^th of July hasn’t felt the same in my hometown of Coronado, California since a certain someone stopped throwing parties in the front yard of his house on Orange Avenue. The years that I was in high school and college, the party to end all parties happened in the yard of a house on Orange. The dead summer grass was crammed with locals as the annual 4th of July parade marched by in the street in front of us. There really wasn't anywhere else to be but that yard. 

I mean yeah, I can get fired up now and think: Cool, 4^th of July, everyone’s in town. We'll go to The Brig. That will be fun. 

But really, it’s not like it was.

It's not the yard on Orange Avenue.

Summer doesn’t feel now like it did then. It’s not the same as when I was 17 and drank tequila and kissed cute boys on rooftop decks while fireworks exploded in the air above us.

In between the day parties and the evening parties, my friends and I would sit and eat ice cream on the median of Orange Avenue while cleaning crews swept up red, white and blue crepe paper streamers and horse shit left over from the parade. We’d talk about boys and kisses, then go to the beach and float in the water.

The whole time, I’d have this feeling in my stomach. It’s a feeling you can only really have when you’re a teenager and the world seems big and round and accessible and never-ending in its opportunity. And it’s not like I’m miserable now. My life is lovely and fulfilling and I still get giddy on the 4^th of July. It’s still my favorite holiday. I’m just not 17 anymore.

It’s not the same. Things no longer exist.

There's no more 4th of July party on Orange Avenue.

There's no more Seal Team demo in the bay.

There’s no more riding around on the handlebars of my best friend’s bike.

There are no more last days of high school when tossing papers free from school lockers really does feel like the most liberating thing on the planet.

There’s no more hanging out at Rotary Circle and flirting with guys on skateboards.

There are no more sailors buying beer for my high school-aged friends and me.

There’s no more drinking that beer on the sand at SBR.

There's no more SBR.

There are no more late nights on Avenida Revolución in Tijuana.

There's no more wearing Raisins bathing suits.

There’s no more hobby shop on Orange Avenue.

There’s no more Cora Mart.

There are no more Water Weenie fights at Sunday’s Concert in the Park.

There are no more lines around the block for Dollar Night movies at the Village Theater.

There’s no more lying on the floor of my room, listening to Depeche Mode’s Some Great Reward album.

There’s no more cruising the hallways of the Hotel del Coronado, looking for the haunted room.

There are no more summer dances on the deck of the Coronado Municipal Pool.

And if there were those things, they wouldn’t feel the same. I wouldn’t feel the same doing them.

Jonathan Richman sings of “That Summer Feeling” like this:

If you’ve forgotten what I’m naming

You’re gonna long to reclaim it one day

Because that summer feeling is gonna haunt you

One day in your life.

You don’t realize the haunting pain of nostalgia when you’re 17. And I’m feeling that today, I guess. I’ve got that sense of wanting to go back for a minute. I’m feeling that loss of a 17-year-old girl who no longer exists. And while I don’t long for it in a permanent sense, I do wonder how it would be, for just one day, to feel on the 4^th of July, the way I did when I was 17. To be wearing cut off 501s and a red tank top, carrying a backpack full of beer, flanked by my best friends as we headed to the front yard of that house on Orange Avenue...

One more time...

© Copyright 2012  Marisa Reichardt. All Rights Reserved