Within Close Range: Megan’s 1959 Split-level Ranch

In Megan’s bedroom, half a flight up the 1959 Split-level Ranch with pink brick and putty colored paint, I fidget with a funky, multi-colored fiber optic lamp, while she plays records and introduces me to jazz, and we wait for her parents to leave and best friends to descend upon the many leveled house. 

We use the un-parented hours to nurture this hand-picked clan, filled with constantly morphing personalities birthed from overactive glands and imaginations, and recently recognized skills as poets, actors and musicians; as Pig Out Queens and Homecoming Queens, Make Out Queens and Dancing Queens. 

Never enough crowns for all those Queens. Never enough time to be all the things, but always enough room on the dance floor. Though all signs point to clumsy and shy, my pelvic-thrusting friends are determined to try to make me Hustle and shake my groove thing in the ground-level living room of metallic gold and green.

Sweating and spinning and dipping. Air Band greats ever in the making. Drinking and joking and choking with laughter. Using voices and faces to find inner traces of people and places. Writing truly foul lyrics to sweet Christmas carols – using every nasty word we can muster to repulse and to fluster.

Years of piano lessons color the scene, mixing Joplin, Pachelbel and Winston into the frenetic hours of being girls, and being teens. Ceasing only long enough to ransack the family’s world of snacks in the very lowest level of Megan’s Split-level Ranch. Like chubby, pubescent picnic-bound ants.

A fairytale kingdom of infinite munchies. Tupperware and tins and tightly sealed snacks of caramels and pretzels and cookies – wafers and Fudge Stripes, shortbreads and sugar. Enough to make teens, with all their snacking needs, merry and me, ecstatic, for all the food my Mom’s cupboards have never seen.

Megan’s kitchen is where I first try it, but Mom refuses to buy it, so I look for this Chef Boyardee diet on other kitchen shelves. I like my SpaghettiOs straight from the can, finding the same comfort in it as in my friendships and the many hours spent at the 1959 Split-level Ranch, being terribly saucy, truly effortless, full of crap, and distinctly gratifying.

Within Close Range: Ice Cream and Convertibles

“Who wants ice cream?” comes the call from the bottom of the stairs.

I’m first to the car, just behind Dad (who’s more excited than anyone) and quickly take possession of the coveted front seat when Mom chooses a quiet hour alone over a waffle cone.

With all on board, off we go down Shoreacres Road, as the last of the day’s golfers drift down the final, shadowed fairway, toward the old clubhouse at the edge of the lake. Rolling along at country club speed, I look to the trees heavy with green and suck in the waning day, the moist lake air, and the strong, sweet aroma of fresh cut grass and wild, roadside onions.

Once on Sheridan Road, Dad presses the gas pedal and summer soon whizzes past, behind a veil of windblown hair continuously plucked from my inescapable grin. It’s a straight shot to Lake Forest. 

Twenty minutes to ice cream, to Baskin-Robbins in the old, brick building at the corner Deerpath Road – half a block from the theater where, once, waiting in line for a movie, Chris covered my eyes as a streaker streaked by.

We follow the train tracks all the way to town, past The Lantern and the best burgers in town; past Market Square where, in the late summer twilight, people are milling about with happy, summer smiles on their happy, summer faces.

Behind the brightly illuminated windows just ahead, I’m happy to see the ice cream shop crowded. It gives me more time to stroll up and down and in between people to inspect all 31 flavors of colorful, ice-cold goodness. 

Rocky Road, Mint Chocolate Chip, Bubble Gum are almost irresistible, but greedy for more, I order the Banana Royale, with its two scoops of vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, chopped nuts, whipped cream, topped with Maraschino cherry…

…and a dubious look from Dad. 

Eating the bright red cherry staining the peak of the whipped cream pile reminds me of Uncle Louie and his big Oldsmobile, with its massive back window filled with baseball caps; and his massive trunk filled with giant bottles, including the largest jar of Maraschino cherries I’ve ever seen.

Still unopened in our kitchen cupboard.

Loath to re-admit offspring with fast melting ice cream into his always pristine car, Dad leads his troop toward Market Square where we admire the stores from a drippy distance. 

Scanning the dimmed display cabinets and shiny glass countertops of Marshall Field’s Department store makes me think about the deliciousness of Frango Mints, and the distinctiveness of the peculiar, old lady in the first floor makeup department, who looks as if she’s been there absolutely forever. 

She fascinates me. 

Always, always, dressed in black, which perfectly matches her jet-black bob, accentuated with a precisely penciled-in, black as pitch, widow’s peak.

A steadfast fancy from her flapper days? 

Her happy days?

Past the old rec center and the stationary store, I pause at the window of Kiddle’s to dig at the fudge from the bottom of my bowl and marvel at the bicycles and basketballs, the helmets, t-shirts, bats and rackets covering every inch of wall from its old, wooden floor to its elaborate, tin ceiling. (Where someone’s day was made the day Dad bought bikes for all seven of us.)

From here, I set my sights on Market Square Bakery. On the same old, dusty display cakes sitting in the same, old dusty display windows. Knowing well what glorious, sugary delights will soon be baking on the other side of the “Closed” sign, making Mom’s after-school errands bearable. 

Always scanning the sidewalks and the square’s grassy center for a friend among the small crowds gathered around the fountain and benches, relishing the cool of the evening. Delighted by the sight of any familiar face and the feeling of community. Intimacy.  

So I make my Banana Royale last. Savoring every moment in every bite as we round the square and pass a real estate office where lighted photos of formidable houses make window-shoppers dream… big.

As the last of the ice cream disappears, and the end of the fourth side of the square is near, I know we’re almost to the car, but not until we pass my very favorite spot –  Pasquesi’s, now dark and quiet.

Inside, there’s a bell on its door that signals Mr. P. to look up from the back of his simple, splendid, tiny purple lunch counter, as he offers up the best and sloppiest of Sloppy Joe’s, the cheesiest of cheese dogs, and the warmest of warm smiles. 

Greeting all as if long lost friends finally coming home. 

Always making me feel that I belong.

Back at the car and forced to relinquish the front seat for a sibling demanding their turn, I lower myself from the cool, night air and, in the quiet of an ice cream coma, count the streetlights passing above, until the stars and the dark replace them, the crickets’ song grows strong, and my eyes grow heavy.

  

Within Close Range – Bullies

Being the furthest away, I’m the first to be picked up by the bus in the morning.

Following the same logic, I’m also the first one dropped off after school.

This means that every, single kid on our route has to sit on the bus an extra forty minutes each afternoon.

Just for me.

Full of hormones and blind hatred, the kids in last few rows of the long, yellow bus make their displeasure over my arrival well-known almost daily.

Moaning and groaning as soon as I appear, making me nervously skitter to a seat near friendlier faces and the exit.

The hardcore insults come later, cloaked in the anonymity of the rumbling and motion of the bus.

“Fucking Loser.”

“Rich Bitch.”

“Father Fucker.”

Deaf to what he hears, the bus driver just goes where he’s told.

In the opposite direction of where every kid on the bus – except me – lives.

United by the same neighborhood, my after-school assailants snarl and nip at the back of my neck like chained dogs, piercing my thin skin.

It’s us versus them in every nasty word. But the “them” they think I am is absolutely absurd.

When their rabid, back row words have more than their usual bite, I step from the bus and veer off the road, searching for a way to shake their words in the thick, dim patches of unpeopled forest.

I disappear among the yellow and ember-colored autumn leaves which cap the many trees of Shoreacres, before the heavy freeze steals the color from the land.

Until the sound of my breathing, the movement of the clouds, and the wildlife going about their business, gives me the inclination to go about my own.

And to replenish my soul with the comforts of home.

Within Close Range: An Evening with Officer Guildemeister

I’ve been sitting here for hours.

Staring at the damn floor.

Finding haunted, frightened faces in the contours of the dark slate below my restless, anxious feet; not knowing whether to be relieved that the last person who came through the door wasn’t Dad.

Officer Gildemeister keeps checking on me through the sliding glass window that separates the lobby from the rest of the station.

Like I’m a possible flight risk.

Asshole.

I know he’s just doing his job, but is all this really necessary? Dragging me in for a lousy can of beer? For God’s sake, I don’t even like beer. It was just handed to me.

Hadn’t even taken one, horrid sip before all hell broke loose.

Everyone saw the cop car enter the St. Mary’s parking lot. Everyone but me and the guy who got busted with his bong.

But even he’s been released… Where the hell are my parents?

And why isn’t there anything to read in here? Anything to stop the constant rewind in my brain: the bright headlights, beers flying, friends fleeing, and voices shouting for me to run. But I’m frozen and can’t see a thing with the squad car’s headlights now shining in my face.

All I can think to do is hide the full beer behind my back… they’d never find it there.

Idiot.

Why did I ever agree to leave the dance?

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I should have just stayed inside and listened to the band. It’s why – NO, Chuck is why I went to that stupid dance in the first place. And for what? Just to be a familiar shadow in the crowd?

“Still no word from your parents. Is there someone else I can call?”

Fuck. Who else can he call?…

“The Villates.”

“The Villates?… You are aware they have to be adults?”

“Dr. and Mrs.” (Asshole.)

He thought I was talking about Rick and Bob. Of course he knows the brothers. And I know what he thinks about them. I can see it in his soulless, pitiless, squinty, little eyes – dirty, hippy, punks – with their long, dark hair, ripped jeans, big, cocky smiles and cockier laughs. With their fast cars and motorcycles – especially Rick’s cherry red Moto Guzzi – which roars and rumbles, announcing his arrival minutes before he can be seen.

I can just see Officer Gildemeister’s sneering face each time my sister’s boyfriend rumbles by him in town…

But if he wants to be rid of me and end his shift, the Villates are his only choice.

Please, Mrs.Villate… please be home.

___________

That’s got to be her.

Unmistakable.

A tiny, fast-moving figure, topped in a tousle of blonde, darting through the doors with a tremendously generous and forgiving smile just for me.

Enter Officer Iceberg-Up-My-Ass.

Standing next to the big man with the gun, Mrs. Villate is nearly eclipsed. Her smile instantly disappears in his shadow.

“Well… are you going to tell her why you’re here, young lady?”

(Because you’re an asshole who couldn’t just slap me on the wrist?)

“I-”

“-She doesn’t have to tell me anything she doesn’t want to.”

Silence.

Did Inge just take down Officer Gildemeister?

He’s flustered. Can’t even look at her. She’s staring him down – or rather up – with a half-raised smile. Knocked out with one blow by a wee, little, German woman in a bad, blonde wig.

Don’t smile, Anne. Just look at the ground and suppress urge to hug Inge ’til later.

“I’ll be contacting your parents tomorrow, young lady.”

I’m sure you will, Officer Asshole.

Let’s get out of here, oh smallest, greatest and by far, very sweetest of all people.

You’re about to get a very tearful earful.