Part 2 — An Unexpected Encounter
Friday, December 31, 1971
“Are you sure this is okay?” I asked my mom for about the tenth time.
“Honey, you look fine,” she responded. “You’re a teenager — you’re only fifteen. No one expects you to dress up like an adult. You look great in your burgundy turtleneck. It’s perfect with your black slacks and black dress shoes. You look handsome.
“Yeah, but we’re going to Aunt Milly’s,” I countered. “She looks down on us as it is. Maybe if it were a cashmere turtleneck instead of a cotton mock turtle from the Sears catalog.” We’d been invited to spend New Year’s Eve with my Aunt Milly, who was Dad’s younger sister. Dad had been the middle child in a family five.
His older brother, my Uncle Mark, died before I was even born. His younger brother, my Uncle Sam, was a morbidly-obese alcoholic who sold used cars for a living. He had once been a successful businessman, or so I’d been told, but then his marriage fell apart and his ex-wife moved to California with the kids.
Dad’s older sister, my Aunt Toby lived in California and was married to a Hollywood movie mogul. The last time I saw her was at Dad’s funeral. Aunt Milly also married money; Uncle Fred was a prominent real estate developer. I hated that both of Dad’s sisters and their husbands treated us like poor white trash. Never mind that none of them went to college. Dad not only graduated from Purdue, but he went on to become a division head in a Fortune 500 company. For her part, Mom didn’t go to college either, but she was valedictorian of her graduating class.
The one thing I would say for Aunt Milly was that although she’d snagged a husband with money, she wasn’t content to be a lady of leisure. She used her husband’s wealth to open a high-end dress shop in Glendale. Her store carried a full line of fine furs and provided off-season storage for them, bringing in customers from all over Central Indiana. That afforded her the opportunity to hobnob with the wealthiest women in the city.
After Dad died, she offered Mom a job in her store, keeping the books. It didn’t pay a lot, but it was a much nicer job than someone could ordinarily find without a college degree. I just hated it that we were obliged to her for our survival. She never missed an opportunity to remind us of that fact, either.
Aunt Milly was often off on long buying trips in New York and Paris. I suspected those were as much for her to get away from her two snobby daughters as to scout the latest fashions. Zoe and Lauren were spoiled beyond reason and used to getting what they wanted. Thank God I didn’t have to deal with them at school every day. They both went to Park Tudor, Indy’s most exclusive private school.
Frankly, I dreaded spending New Year’s Eve with Aunt Milly’s family. Why they’d invited us was a mystery to me. However, they did invite us, and sending our regrets was not an option. They would’ve never let us live it down. Hobnobbing with their rich friends was about the last thing I wanted to do on New Year’s Eve.
“Tell you what,” Mom began, interrupting my thoughts. “Why don’t we take the LTD, and you can drive.” That was unexpected. The LTD was definitely the nicer of our two cars. Dad had bought it just a few months before he died. Mom couldn’t bear to get rid of it, yet she hated driving such a big car. She drove a ’65 Dodge Dart that had certainly seen better days.
I’d taken Driver’s Ed over the summer and could drive with my learner’s permit, as long as there was an adult in the car. I’d be able to get my provisional driver’s license one month after I turned sixteen, which would be in May. Then the LTD would be mine.
Mom handed me the keys for the LTD; I unlocked the front passenger door and held it open for her to get inside. I walked around and got in on the driver’s side, adjusted the seat and mirrors, fastened my seatbelt and turned the ignition. I backed the car out of the garage into the street. Mom and I remained silent on the short ride to Aunt Milly’s house.
Aunt Milly lived in Spring Hill Estates, an affluent neighborhood nestled on the west side of Spring Mill Road and across from Holiday Park and the Meridian Hills Country Club. The pretentious name was seemingly more grand than the ranch-style houses that, from the street, appeared to be rather modest. That illusion was fostered by the use low-slung architecture and narrow, but deep one-acre lots, which hid the full extent of the properties.
On more careful observation, however, the houses sported one-of-a-kind, mid-century modern designs from well-known architects. There were circular driveways with garages that opened on the side or in back, stone or brick edifices and separate entrances to the maid’s quarters. There were large windows in front that helped bring in subdued light from the heavily shaded front lawns. Some had swimming pools in back, but most did not, as the one thing lacking was a large backyard.
Aunt Milly’s house was one of the larger ones, fronting directly on Spring Mill Road. Unlike the faux-ranch tract house my parents built, hers was a true ranch-style house. Set back from the street, it was an imposing structure. The façade of white-painted brick relayed a sense of permanence and elegance. The driveway was already more than half-full when I pulled up behind the last car in the line. It wasn’t lost on me that nearly every other car was a late-model Cadillac.
Taking my mother’s arm, we walked up to the front door and I rang the bell. It sounded more like something from a church tower than the doorbell of a private residence. It was Uncle Fred who opened the door. He was an imposing figure, standing at least six and a half feet tall and weighing more than 250 pounds. Standing next to him, Aunt Milly was a petite figure of more than a foot less in height and weighing less than half as much.
They made quite a pair, but it was Aunt Milly who was in charge. I barely had a chance to shake Uncle Fred’s hand when Aunt Milly pulled me into a hug and kissed me on the cheek, putting me in the uncomfortable position of having to kiss her back. Then stepping back and holding both of my hands, she said, “Look at you, Jeffery. You’ve grown so much since the last time I saw you.”
“Thanks,” I replied. What else could I say? That the last time she saw me was at Dad’s funeral three years ago? That no one ever called me Jeffery?
“Why don’t you hang up your coat and mingle with the other teens,” Aunt Milly suggested. “There are hot hors d’oeuvres in the family room, and you can get a soft drink from the bar on the patio.” Grabbing a hanger from the coat closet, which dominated the left wall of the foyer, I hung up my winter coat. Somehow, my J.C. Penny original looked out of place among the designer cashmere and fur coats that otherwise filled the closet.
Opposite the closet, to the right of the foyer, were formal living and dining rooms with furnishings that looked like they could have come out of a fashion magazine. A large floor-to-ceiling picture window faced the street and was covered with fine sheer draperies. An enormous fireplace dominated the opposite wall. A crystal chandelier hung over the dining room table, with a design that perfectly matched the glassware in the china cabinet. Most likely, both were Waterford. The white carpeting and elegant, white upholstered furniture made it obvious that the rooms were seldom used.
Straight ahead from the foyer was the hub of activity, the family room, which was everything the living room was not. Although Aunt Milly’s family was as pretentious as any I’d ever met, the family room was remarkably inviting. The walls of the family room were paneled in a light wood that exuded warmth. The furniture was evidently custom-designed to fit the space, but it was surprisingly functional and comfortable.
The wall separating the family room from the living room was dominated by another gigantic fireplace, in which a real wood fire was burning. A pair of swinging café doors led from the adjacent wall into a large eat-in kitchen. A pair of buffet tables flanked the doorway. One of them was set with several covered chafing dishes, with flaming candles underneath. The other was set with cakes, cookies and other sweets.
Occupying the entire left wall were built-in bookcases, filled not only with rare first editions, but with children’s books, a World Book Encyclopedia set and family photo albums. There was even a built-in 25-inch television in the corner, with a slide-out turntable, a reel-to-reel tape deck and a stereo receiver just below it. Soft music from a local FM station played in the background, emanating from recessed speakers in the ceiling.
Directly ahead was a pair of sliding glass doors that were fully open, leading out into an enclosed patio. The patio was nearly as large as the family room and enclosed by sliding glass doors on all three sides. The effect was stunning, effectively doubling the size of the family room. Yet another fire burned in a circular fireplace in the center, helping the patio to stay warm and cozy, even on such a cold winter day.
Seeing one of my cousins — actually a second cousin — I headed out into the patio and greeted him. “Arnie, how are you doing? How’s medical school?”
“It’s like bein’ back in high school,” he replied with a laugh.
“Whatdaya mean?” I asked.
“They treat us like we’re teenagers all over again,” he explained. “In college, they treat you more like adults. They post the reading assignments and there’s assigned homework, but no one tells you what to do. You can attend the lectures, or not if you wish, but it’s up to you how you learn the material. The onus is entirely on you.
“In medical school, everything’s regimented, just like it was in high school. In a way, it’s necessary, ’cause the material comes at you so fast. If you fall behind, you’ll never catch up. Skipping lectures is at your peril. ’Course the first year’s all basic science lectures. We don’t start our clinical clerkships until the third year, and that’s gotta be a whole different ballgame.”
“You’re doing a great job of talking me out of going to medical school,” I joked and we both laughed. “Actually, I’m more into math and science than anything. Perhaps I’ll become an engineer like my dad was. Becoming a doctor is way down the list as far as I’m concerned.”
“Law’s the way to go,” a voice I recognized called out as a teenage boy approached. It was one of my cousins by marriage, Andy Trainer, who was a classmate of mine. He’d been a casual friend since we started junior high. His father was a partner in a prestigious law firm, whose clients included some of the top companies and corporations in the city. Andy and I traveled in different social circles and sat at different lunch tables, but he never once made me feel inferior.
I couldn’t help but notice that Andy was drinking a Michelob, straight from the bottle. I’d never even tried beer, let alone anything else alcoholic. I wondered how he could get away with drinking a beer at fifteen, right in front of his parents no less. On the other hand, Andy was one of the most thoughtful kids I knew. When my dad died, he even took up a collection and sent flowers.
“Not all of us are focused on bein’ rich,” Arnie countered.
“It’s not like lawyers earn big bucks right away,” Andy responded. “They spend years doing scutwork, and then they have to buy into the practice when they make partner. Meanwhile, they’re barely scraping by and trying to pay off their student loans. My grandparents owned a shoe store and had four kids. Dad had to put himself through college and law school, but he was lucky. He graduated at the top of his class and made partner by the time he was thirty.
“I don’t remember much about those early days, but I do remember our first house. It had just three bedrooms and was only fifteen hundred square feet. It wasn’t until he won some big cases that he was able to pay off all the loans, and we finally could afford a decent house.”
I was about to comment that we still lived in a 1500 square foot house with three bedrooms, but Arnie beat me to it, saying, “I grew up in a house that was even smaller than your first house, and I’d bet it was much older. My folks and my sister still live there. Don’t get me wrong — your father worked hard to get where he is today, and I’m sure you’re proud of him for what he accomplished.
“Thanks to him, you’ll be able to go to Harvard, or Yale, or any freakin’ law school in the world and your old man’ll pay for all of it. You’ll probably get a job in his law firm, and you’ll make partner within a few years of graduating, and he’ll probably even help you buy your way into the partnership…”
“Actually, I’d like to do better than making partner in Indy,” Andy interrupted. “There’s a whole world out there! Yeah, I’ll go to a top law school, but then I’ll join a top law firm in New York, or L.A., or maybe Washington. Hell, maybe I’ll even go into politics.”
“You’d do well in politics,” I chimed in. “You’re comfortable hobnobbing with the rich and famous, yet you don’t come off as aloof or snobbish the way so many rich kids do.”
“I’m not rich… not really,” Andy protested. “Besides, my dad won’t let me forget where we came from.”
“And he lets you drink beer in public?” Arnie asked.
“Not that it’s important, but a lot of the kids in our class will be getting plastered tonight. Not all teenagers are goodie-goodies like you, Jeff,” he added looking at me.
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “What makes you think I don’t have my moments?”
“Have you even tried drinking beer?”
“No,” I admitted sheepishly.
“A lot of the kids in my social circle will be stoned by the time 1972 rolls around,” Andy explained. “They’ll be at parties without parental supervision, where beer will be the mildest thing on tap. Unlike a lot of those kids, my parents actually care about me. They’d never allow me to go to a wild party like that.
“I guess you could say the beer’s a consolation prize. Besides, Dad’ll be keeping an eye on me. I’ll be grounded for the rest of the school year if I wind up getting drunk.”
“I didn’t know such parties existed,” I responded.
“That’s ’cause you’re not one of the ‘cool kids’, Arnie replied. “Nor was I!”
“If being cool means getting drunk and stoned out of your mind, then I think I’ll pass — not that there’s any danger of me being popular,” I responded.
“Popularity has its way of opening doors, but it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Andy added.
“That’s easy for you to say,” I countered.
“What’s easy?” Mitch Townsend, another classmate from school, asked as he approached our group. Mitch lived with his parents and three sisters in an enormous house in Summerset Hills. To me, it was a mansion, but it was probably no bigger than the other houses in his neighborhood. He was certainly more on the fringe than the rest of us, being heavily into the rock music scene. However, in spite of being a rich kid, he was a genuinely nice guy.
Mitch and I shared a locker in the seventh grade. Northview Junior High was well over its intended capacity, and there weren’t enough lockers for everyone. In addition to being my locker mate, he gave me pointers on how to look a little less nerdy. He showed me how to deal with all the teasing that goes on when you’re twelve, and how to dish it right back. When it came to actual bullying, however, he never failed to stand up for me.
Like Andy, Mitch wasn’t someone I’d invite over or go out with to see a movie or anything like that, but I considered him to be a true friend. When my dad died, Andy was thoughtful, but Mitch gave me his shoulder to cry on, sometimes quite literally. We may have traveled in different circles, but Mitch was someone I could always count on.
“Hey Mitch,” Andy responded. “How’d you get an invite to my uncle’s party?”
“My dad has the contract for your aunt’s store,” Mitch explained. Mitch’s dad owned one of the largest dry-cleaning chains in Central Indiana.
“We were just talking about how popularity has its downsides, like wild parties with alcohol and more,” Andy went on.
“You’ve got balls, Andy,” Mitch said. “My Dad would have my hide if I drank beer in front of him. His idea of what’s age-appropriate for a kid who just turned sixteen is a sip of champagne at midnight. He doesn’t know about the beer and weed at all those wild parties.”
“I didn’t know you smoked pot,” I responded in surprise.
“Trust me, it’s highly overrated.” Mitch replied. I couldn’t help but notice that Andy was nodding his head in agreement. I couldn’t relate. I was terrified of losing control, be it from alcohol, pot or anything else.
“Anyway, my dad would be the first to admit that popularity in high school has nothing to do with your ultimate station in life,” Andy went on. “In two and a half years, you’ll graduate at the top of our class and go on to college on a full scholarship.”
“I’ll never graduate at the top of the class,” I countered. “Not even near the top. I can’t get more than a B in gym. There are plenty of kids with straight A’s ahead of me.”
“You and I are in the same boat there,” Andy continued. “Not everyone can be an athlete, but you’ll go on to get your Ph.D. and, who knows, someday you might get a Nobel Prize.”
Laughing, I responded, “Yeah, that’ll be the day. And another thing… I’ll finish high school next year, at the end of my junior year.”
“How is that even possible?” Mitch asked. “I thought Indiana won’t let you graduate in less than seven semesters, regardless of how many credits you have.”
“Most colleges don’t require a high school diploma for admission,” I explained. “They only look at the courses you took, your grades and your SATs. ’Course I do wanna graduate. I’ll have completed all the requirements otherwise, and I want that diploma. Some employers actually require a high school diploma, even if you do have a Ph.D. from a top university.
“Last year, I met with my guidance counselor at Northview and asked her about early graduation. It turns out there’s a work-around and every year, a half-dozen or so kids take advantage of it. The principal will petition the governor for a pardon on our behalf. The pardon allows us to go to college during our senior year and then graduate with the rest of our class.”
“Why would you want to do that?” Mitch asked. “There are so many things going in senior year. You’ll miss out on all of that. Those are memories you’ll have the rest of your life, man.”
“What memories?” I responded. “Memories of the parties I didn’t go to? Memories of the sports I didn’t play, or the girl I didn’t take to senior prom?”
“You’re popular in your circle of nerdy friends,” Andy countered.
“Yeah, in the Bridge Club, the Science Club and the Drama Club,” I countered. “Thanks but no thanks. I’m ready to move on.”
“Well I for one think it’s a great idea!” Arnie chimed in. “I wish I’d have known about it. I couldn’t wait to be done with high school and to start college. Senior year was a waste.” Then turning his head and looking at me, he continued, “You know, Jeff, there are college-based summer programs for high school students. I went to one at Purdue. Most are for kids going into their senior year, but you should look into it anyway. You could get college credit and see what it’s like to go to college.”
“There are three problems with that, I think,” I replied. “First, there’s the issue of money. Could I afford the tuition, room and board? Second, can I even apply this late in the school year? Finally, there’s the little matter of needing to go to summer school to pick up the final credits I need for graduation. But thanks for the thought.”
“What’s the harm in checking into it?” Arnie countered. “I would think most of those programs are still taking applications. And when it comes to cost, you’ll still hafta pay tuition, room and board, regardless of whether you do the coursework now or later, but maybe there are scholarships. As far as summer school is concerned, you can take those classes next year, during the summer between high school and college. You won’t be getting your high school diploma until 1974 anyway, so what’s the diff?”
I started to open my mouth, but then realized I had nothing to say. Finally, I replied, “Okay, I’ll look into it.”
Changing the subject, Mitch said, “Man, I’m starving and midnight’s hours away. Let’s go get some of the food before it disappears. Besides, I don’t want to hafta go back inside, once Guy Lombardo’s on the tube.”
“A fate worse than death,” Andy agreed and we all laughed. “Listen, I heard Dick Clark’s in talks with NBC to host an alternative New Year’s special. That’d be so much better than watching Guy Lombardo and the Royal Canadians. I might even watch it…”
“Hell, yeah!” Mitch agreed. “Who listens to big band music anymore?”
“Uh — our parents?” Arnie pointed out. “But yeah, Dick Clark would be way better. Let’s go grab some food.”
We’d barely walked back into the family room when the older of Aunt Milly’s two daughters, Lauren, brushed the three of us high school boys aside as if we weren’t even there. She grabbed Arnie’s arm, hooking it with hers, and said, “Arnie, why didn’t you say ‘Hi’ to me when you arrived?” Arnie was 22 and Lauren was 17, and yet she’d quickly put him on the defensive and gained the upper hand.
I wasn’t sure how poor Arnie had responded, as she deftly maneuvered him past the three of us and into the kitchen, to who knew where. Before Arnie got into medical school, Lauren barely acknowledged he existed. Now, there was no doubt that she hoped to get her hooks into him and nab herself a future doctor for a boyfriend. Not that she was interested in marrying Arnie — they were second cousins, after all.
I was somewhat aware that for her, the cachet of dating a medical student could help her social status, but the importance of such things was beyond me. I could only hope that Arnie was smart enough to see through her shallow affections and strong enough to put her in her place. Knowing he was nearly as nerdy and shy as I was, however, there wasn’t much hope of either.
It was as I was having those thoughts that we encountered the younger of Aunt Milly’s daughters, Zoe. Zoe was an enigma to me in that she always seemed to latch onto me, and not in a good way. During the relatively few times we’d been together, starting when we were both toddlers, she stuck to me the way a barnacle attaches itself to a ship. I never understood why, particularly when there were other kids our age around such as Mitch and Andy.
Now that I was nearly sixteen, I was beginning to realize that perhaps she got a vicarious thrill from being able to manipulate an older boy with such ease. Zoe was fourteen and a year behind me in school. That she could still talk me into doing her bidding as easily as she did was beyond frustrating, yet I was like putty in her hands. To her I wasn’t a person, but a plaything, and I was powerless to stop her.
“Jeffy, you must be starved,” Zoe said as she grabbed my arm and led me to the buffet tables. “Have you had anything to eat yet?” she asked. I could do little more than shake my head. “Then let’s start with a shrimp cocktail and some hot hors d’oeuvres, and we can sample the desserts later.”
Before I could stop her, she thrust a small plate into my hands and started to load it with a stuffed mushroom cap, bacon-wrapped scallops, an egg roll, a beef kabob and a miniature quiche. She grabbed a couple of small shrimp cocktails in stemware and handed me one of them, keeping the other for herself. Then she guided me out to the entry foyer and down a dark hallway that I’d barely noticed when coming in.
She took me into a part of the house where I’d never been and I soon found myself in a girl’s bedroom. That it belonged to a girl was obvious from the flowery wallpaper, the frilly bed coverings and the copious array of large stuffed animals. However, unlike in my bedroom, there were no posters on the walls or any artwork at all. The room didn’t look lived in, although there was no doubt that it was hers. Perhaps that said more about her personality than anything else.
Just as I was beginning to wonder what I was doing in her bedroom, she said, “Why don’t you sit down at my desk, and I’ll go get us both something to drink. Would a Coke be okay?”
I wasn’t sure where I got the nerve to respond, but I replied, “Actually, I’d prefer a Seven-Up, if you have it.”
“Then Seven-Up, it is,” she responded, and then quickly exited the room. Moments later, she returned with a couple of tall glasses of soft drinks on ice, handing me the clear one while she took the one that was obviously a Coke. I took a sip of my drink and although it tasted like Seven-Up, there was something different about it. It had a kind of noxious odor and it was very warm going down. I’d never drunk anything with alcohol before, and for a moment, I wondered if Zoe had spiked my drink. However, not even she was that brazen. Perhaps rather than Seven-Up, she’d given me a different brand of a lemon-lime pop.
Zoe turned on her stereo and put something on the record player. I couldn’t see what it was, the sounds of Marvin Gaye singing What’s Going On soon filled the room. “To 1972!” Zoe shouted as she raised her glass and took a healthy slug of her drink. When I just sat there, she said, “C’mon, Jeffy. Let’s drink to the new year.”
“To the new year,” I replied as I took a healthy gulp of my drink. It almost burned the back of my throat, but I just assumed the pop was more heavily carbonated than what I was used to.
“That’s the spirit!” Zoe exclaimed, and then she grabbed one of the shrimp from her shrimp cocktail, dipped it in the cocktail sauce and popped it in her mouth. She followed that with a healthy swig of her Coke and then smiled expectantly at me. The funny thing is that I’d never had shrimp cocktail before. In my family, eating out for a special occasion meant going to a steakhouse or a Chinese restaurant.
The first surprise came when I grabbed hold of the tail of the shrimp and found that it was cold. Since all of the other hors d’oeuvres were hot, I’d just assumed the shrimp would be hot as well. I dipped the shrimp into what I thought was ketchup, but when I popped it in my mouth, I got my second surprise — it was way better than ketchup. It was tangy! It was delicious. Over the next several minutes, we both finished off our shrimp cocktails. I’d finished about half of my Seven-Up and she’d finished off all of her Coke.
“Why don’t you eat the rest of the hors d’oeuvres and I’ll be right back,” Zoe suggested, and then she was out the door. She was gone for several minutes, during which I ate everything else on the plate. It was all delicious. Without even thinking about it, I finished my drink.
Finally, she returned and closed the door behind her, carrying full glasses of coke and Seven-Up, as well as a plate full of fancy pastries and cookies. Then I heard the distinct click of her locking her bedroom door. I was already feeling a bit warm for some reason, but hearing her lock the door made the temperature in the room seem to go up at least another ten degrees.
Handing me my drink, Zoe asked, “Tell me, Jeffy, have you ever seen a naked girl before?”
My face felt like it was on fire as I answered, “Of course I have.”
“Not in Playboy, silly,” she went on. “What I meant was, have you seen a real live naked girl in the flesh?” she clarified as she took one of the pastries and took a small bite of it, chewing it slowly, almost seductively.
In reality, I hadn’t seen a naked girl outside of the porn we boys all shared back in junior high, but what teenage boy would admit to that? I was far too nervous to acquire a porn stash of my own and my fantasies, such as they were, were about generic things like being naked outdoors.
The longer I hesitated, the broader the smirk grew on Zoe’s face. “You haven’t, have you?”
I continued to remain silent, dropping my eyes and staring at the shag carpeting on her floor.
“Well we’re gonna hafta change that,” she added as she took another bite. My face felt even more like it was on fire as I pondered what in the world she meant by that. After swallowing the pastry and drinking some of her coke, she suggested, “Why don’t you try some of these desserts? They’re wonderful.”
I took a bite of a small chocolate cupcake that turned out to have a soft, dark chocolatey center — it was incredibly rich — and then I popped the rest of it into my mouth. I followed it by a sip of my drink, which burned even more than the last one. It still tasted like Seven-Up, though, so I assumed I was just nervous from Zoe locking her door.
I lost track of the time as the two of us sat in her bedroom and finished off the desserts and our drinks, and then another set of drinks, while we listened to Marvin Gaye, John Lennon and Carole King. By then I was feeling a bit woozy and I was beginning to suspect that Zoe had spiked my drinks after all. Perhaps I was even drunk, but then I had no idea what that felt like.
For her part, Zoe didn’t seem to be affected at all. Only later would I realize that she’d probably not spiked her own drinks — at least not to the same degree.
“Have you ever smoked pot, Jeffy?” she asked.
I had no interest in smoking pot. Marijuana was illegal and I didn’t even want to try it. Hell, I was tipsy enough as it was. Thinking quickly, I replied, “I’m deathly allergic. I get asthma from even breathing the smoke from burning leaves.” That much was actually true. Leaf burning was legal in Indiana and every fall I stayed indoors rather than deal with the consequences.
“Allergic to weed? Have you even tried it?” She responded.
“I don’t need to try it to know the danger,” I explained. “Do you want to have to explain to your mother why you had to call 911 on New Year’s Eve?” 911 was something new — just introduced a few years ago — in any case, that shut Zoe up in a hurry.
“Oh well, there are other ways to enjoy ourselves,” she went on. “What better way is there to ring in the New Year than with earth-shattering sex?”
Shocked, I looked up in time to see her start to unbutton her blouse and pull it off. Just to see a girl in her bra was exciting, but I felt panic more than anything. She toed off her shoes and unbuckled and removed her belt, and then she unsnapped, lowered and removed her jeans.
I had no interest in having sex with my cousin. As naïve as I was, it hadn’t been that long since I discovered the joys of jerking off! I wasn’t even aware that other boys jerked off too. I felt guilty enough as it was. I sure as hell wasn’t ready for anything more, and certainly not with Zoe. She wasn’t really that attractive in the first place. Seeing her in her underwear, I didn’t even get hard.
Without the designer clothes, she was rather plain looking, with a figure that was almost too thin, and she was nearly flat-chested. Although I liked long straight hair, hers was a mousy brown, fluffed up and if anything, over-styled. She did nothing for me.
I started to open my mouth, but then she shushed me with her finger. She dropped down, untied my dress shoes and pulled them off, leaving me in my stocking feet. Next, she reached for my belt, unbuckled it and removed it. I felt powerless as she reached under my arms and lifted me to me feet, then unbuttoned and unzipped my pants and dropped them to the floor.
She reached for the hem of my shirt and tugged up on it, lifting so forcefully that I had no choice but to raise my arms and let her pull it off of me. That left me standing there in just my tighty-whities and my socks, with my pants bunched around my ankles. Then she yanked my underpants down in one quick motion, leaving me fully exposed. I was mortified.
Zoe pushed me back onto her bed and pulled my pants, briefs and socks off, leaving me completely naked. She then unfastened and removed her bra and slid off her panties. I was too nervous and too scared to get hard. Not that I wanted to get an erection in front of my least favorite cousin!
Forcefully, she grabbed hold of my dick and started fondling it while she stroked my chest with her other hand, but I remained soft.
“Don’t you want to touch my boobs?” she asked.
Truthfully, there wasn’t much to touch, but I couldn’t tell her that. Instead, I replied, “You’re my cousin!”
“But I’m still a naked girl,” she countered, and then asked the question that would haunt me for years to come. “Are you queer or something?”
“Of course not!” I shouted. Then changing the subject, I said, “I should get back out there before my mom wonders what happened to me.” I quickly tried to gather my clothes but had trouble even standing up.
“You can’t go back out there drunk,” Zoe pointed out.
“I wouldn’t be if you hadn’t spiked my drinks,” I challenged. “Maybe that’s why I couldn’t get hard,” I added. “I’ve heard locker room talk about boys who couldn’t get it up after drinking a few beers.”
“There were only a few ounces of vodka in each drink,” she countered.
“That’s a hell of a lot for someone who isn’t used to it,” I responded.
Then gathering my wits, I suggested, “Look, you don’t hafta tell anyone you spiked the Seven-Up. You can tell my mom that someone else got my drinks, and I didn’t know there was alcohol in them. Tell her that when you realized I was drunk, you helped me to your bedroom and then went to find her. Just get dressed and help me get dressed, and then find my mom.”
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Mom wasn’t happy about my getting drunk, but she accepted that I didn’t know my drinks were spiked. It didn’t take her long to figure out that Zoe was responsible, but there was little to be done about it. Rather than worsen our relationship with her sister-in-law, she simply told Aunt Milly that something I ate disagreed with me and she was taking me home.
1972 came while we were still in the car, on the way home. It was just as well, as neither Mom nor I would’ve enjoyed celebrating it in a crowd of rich snobs, most of whom we didn’t even know. Why Aunt Milly invited us remained a mystery. Best I could figure, too many of her invitees declined. To save face, she needed some warm bodies to round out the guest list, making for an acceptable crowd.
The morning of New Year’s Day did not dawn brightly for me as I experienced my first-ever hangover. The headache was bad enough, but the vomiting and diarrhea were horrible. It didn’t help that it was a dreary day, with temperatures barely above freezing and with fog and drizzle. To be honest, I didn’t care much for the sensation of being drunk either. Why people voluntarily subjected themselves to that was a mystery to me.
Per Mom’s advice, I took some aspirin and ate only toast with tea. Gradually, I felt better and by dinnertime I was able to tolerate my Mom’s tuna noodle casserole. We missed out on all of the sales that were going on on New Year’s Day, but there wasn’t really anything we needed. Besides which, New Year’s was on a Saturday this year, which meant the sales would continue through the weekend.
We were woken up early on Sunday when Hook Drug called us to let us know our pictures were ready. Well, it was 9:00 AM, but that was rather early to be calling on a Sunday, especially on a holiday weekend. As the fog slowly cleared from my brain, I remembered dropping off the roll of film from my dad’s old camera — film that had been sitting in his camera for more than three years! I couldn’t wait to pick up the photos.
