I Remember You — Alison

Love (or something like it) looks back.

Dating

Love (or something like it) looks back.

Photo by Anthony Fomin on Unsplash

Dig if you will a picture.

If you get that reference, then you have a good idea of when this story takes place.

After failing God only knows what class (I wanna say it was algebra), I was required to take summer school one year in high school. The down side was school in the summer, the up side was I got to have my mom’s car every day.

The first day, I noticed a girl I knew a little, Alison — blonde, a little taller than most girls, and objectively attractive. But not my type.

I knew she was a cheerleader of some kind, and even though we danced around the same social circle, that was the extent of my knowledge of her. She was one of the sporty, chirpy cheerleader types. And I was one of the decently dressed, ne’er-do-well types that the cheerleaders didn’t mind hanging out with, even sleeping with, but never brought around the house.

Anyway, I nodded when I got by her, and she nodded back. I took the unspoken acceptance and sat next to her. Before class started we made small talk about a mutual friend. Within an hour, and a few eye rolls and smirks to each other, we immediately became summer school buddies.

After the third day and several shared laughs, and cigarettes, I found Alison to be fun. And funny. One day we were outside having a cigarette (which she bummed from me… cheerleaders only smoked OP cigarettes — other people’s), and she asked me a question.

“Hey, can I get a ride home from you?”
“Yea, sure. Where do you live?”
“Over by (someplace a hypnotist couldn’t get me to recall).”

Now, I am 100% certain she needed that ride. 
I am also 100% certain she wanted that ride because she knew I would be getting high after school.

As we pulled out of the school lot she said: “I don’t have to be home until like 1 pm.”
“Oh. Cool. You wanna go smoke a bowl?”
She lit up: “I do. Yes, I believe that I do.”

Alison and I drove to an elementary school that had some woods behind it. I parked and we got out and walked down to the little picnic area. We sat on the top and passed the bowl back and forth while we talked shit like only teenagers can do.

During a little silent window, Alison threw this into the haze: “You know I always thought you were cute.”
That wasn’t expected: “Oh. Thanks.”
“What about me?”
“What about you?” — I was high, and I’m not always so good at reading cues — especially with women. 
“Do you think I’m cute?”
I looked at her: “Yea. You are.”
“How come you never asked me out?”

My inside voice said: “Because I am absolutely 100% certain we would have nothing to talk about,” but it came out as: “I dunno.”

I guess I should’ve seen it coming, but I didn’t — Alison leaned in to kiss me; and even though our mouths were dryer than a 90-year old vagina, the kiss was surprisingly… hot. We pulled away and laughed. I think we were both a little shocked at how fun and natural it seemed.

After it sank in, I said: “I need something to drink.”
“Yea, me too.”
Motioning over my shoulder: “I live right around the corner, and we can stop there and get something to drink.”
She looked at her watch: “Cool. I still have a couple of hours before I have to be home. And I gotta pee anyway.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking at this point. Trust me, I do. But I did live around the corner.

Maybe your average hot-blooded, stoned, 17-year-old boy, would drop that bit because they had a plan. I had no plan. We may have kissed. It may have been hot, but I wasn’t interested. I was still reeling from a break-up a few months before and just didn’t want to be bothered.

However, let me be very clear, I wasn’t interested at that moment we were sitting on the picnic table.

We pulled into my driveway and went into the house. While Alison used the bathroom, I went out to the garage and got two cans of Diet Coke. I was outside on the deck by the time she got out, having a cigarette.
I called into her: “I’m out here.”
“Where?”
“Where?! On the deck.”
She came out laughing and sat down at the table: “Sorry,” and nodded towards my Marlboro’s, “Can I have one?”
I pushed them towards her.
Again we made idle talk until she dropped the bomb: “Can I see your room?”

As bad as I am at reading cues, I am the mother fucking master of understanding code: “Sure.” We put out our cigarettes, walked in the house, and up the stairs to my room. No one was home, so I had no real need to close the door.

I don’t remember what album I put on, but given the time frame and my frame of mind, I’m confident saying it was Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks.

We sat on the floor for a little bit as I am 100% certain I was bloviating about something to do with music; and it didn’t take too long before Alison scooted forward to finish the kiss from the woods.

And finish, we did.

This would become our daily ritual for the remaining two weeks of summer school. We would go to school, leave, get high (most days), then go to my house and screw (every day).

What I didn’t know then was that I had a “fuck buddy.” I wouldn’t learn that term for quite a few years.

Alison didn’t want to hang out, double date, or talk on the phone every day. 
She. Just. Wanted. To. Fuck. 
Full stop.

Show me a 17-year-old boy that’s gonna pass that up and I’ll show you the holy grail. Come to think of it, most men, regardless of age, wouldn’t pass that up.

As summer school came to a close, Alison asked for my phone number, much to my surprise.

A day or two after summer school ended, she called me — at 9 am, and to a teenager, that may as well have been 5 am.
Groggy and cranky, I picked it up: “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Alison.”
That took a minute to sink in: “Oh, hey. What’s up?”
“I’m at Stephanie’s. Can you pick me up and take me home?”
This required very little de-coding: “Uh, yea, gimme like 20 minutes, I need to shower.”

Today, we would refer to this today as a “booty call.”

The “fuck buddy” and “booty call” concepts were not something that I knew existed back then. They absolutely did. Those concepts probably date back to the dawn of man… but I bet they had less snappy names.

Alison would spend about three or four nights a week at Stephanie’s and always call me for a ride home in the morning. As July crept into August, Alison and I were still “hangin’ and bangin’” (another term I learned as an adult).

One night we found ourselves at the same party, but blithely ignoring one another. Of course we said “hi” when we first saw each other, we’re weren’t savages. But by and large we each stuck close to our tribes. Every now and again, I would look around to try and find Alison, and I like to tell myself that she did the same.

There came a moment when I was standing alone by the keg, and Alison glided over to me.

“Hey. Can you give me a ride home?”
I looked around: “Now?”
“I gotta say good-bye to Steph, but yea. Like five minutes.”
Tilting my head and squinting a little, I asked: “You sure?”
“Of course. I’ll meet you out front in five minutes.”
“Okay.”

I looked around for my friend Brian and motioned I was leaving and he hoisted up his red solo cup in my direction.

Alison came out on time as I was leaning against my car having a cigarette. She reached for it so she could get a pull from it, and then she dropped it and stepped on it: “Take me somewhere.”
It was 10 pm, my house was out of the question: “Where?”
She shrugged as she walked around to the passenger side: “I don’t care.”
“You sure?”
She opened the door and smiled: “Yep. I have two hours to kill. Let’s kill ‘em.”

I drove and found a secluded spot, and while we were making out, I said: “I don’t have anything.”
“Just pull out.”
“Really?”
“Yea, I’m like days away from getting my period,” and she began to unbutton my jeans.

As we always did, Alison and I acted like two teenagers from an X-rated John Hughes movie.

When we finally got around to putting our clothes on again, she slid into her shoe and let out a huge sigh.
I asked: “What’s up?”
“You came in my shoe.”
“What?”
Alison looked at me and I could tell she wasn’t that mad: “You came. In my shoe.” 
“Well, you said to pull out. I did.”
She let out a big laugh: “Yea, but…”

This was almost the end of summer, so I think we both knew the fun was gonna end. I don’t think either of us was two emotionally wrapped up in things. All we did was fuck. We didn’t go out to eat. We never went to the movies; I never met her parents… we literally did nothing. 
We just fucked.

One night, Alison called me. Naturally, I flew right into “SHIT! She’s pregnant!” mode. 
She asked: “Are you busy?”
“No. What’s up?”
She gave up another huge sigh: “I have to tell you something.”

My mind was racing, convinced she was either pregnant or had an STD. I had no idea, but I began gaming out both scenarios in my head: “Uh, okay.”
And then she dropped the bomb: “I’m moving next week.”
That took a moment to sink it: “You’re what now?”
“I’m moving next week.”
I think the relief that I stopped gaming out my scenarios was in my voice: “Oh. Where?”
“Vermont.”
“Vermont?”
“Yea, it’s by Massachusetts.”
We laughed: “I know where it is Alison. My question is why?”
“My dad got a new job.”

I had no fucking idea what her father did, and had even less of a clue what someone would do in Vermont. But that’s where she was headed.

It was silent for a little bit. I wasn’t sure how to process this. And then I did: “Well, that sucks,” because it did suck.
Alison said: “I know. But we still have like a week to hang out.”

And we did.

Our last time together, neither of us got weepy or said too much. Dare I say, there may have even been some emotion wrapped up in our rolling around. But after we got dressed, Alison asked for my address and promised to write.

And she did.

We exchanged maybe three or four letters, and then it will shock no one who has stuck with the story this far, that the letters stopped. Who can recall who didn’t reply to whom — the letters just stopped.

Now and again, I would hear her name in certain circles, and it always made me smile. (wink wink) I was truly happy to hear that she was doing well.

And for you cynics out there who think Alison knew all along she was moving at the end of the summer, you may be right. I don’t know. We had fun together and it was clearly at a time when we both needed the fun.

What became of Alison? I don’t know. That was a moment in time, now a distant good memory that I’m happy to leave secure in the amber.

Reflecting on it now, I can see that the relationship I had with Alison was the type of relationship I would encounter again… and again… and again. A love affair that is strictly physical, and amazing. But always skulking around would be some kind of emotional chasm that couldn’t be bridged. Sometimes those endings didn’t hurt, sometimes they were bittersweet, and other times, as it did with Alison, the endings just sucked.

I may not remember their names, the circumstances, or the time period of some of those lovers, but I remember Alison.

It’s true what they say — you never forget your first.