Two Drunk Girls

I moved this from yesterday to today because yesterday was my mother's birthday and I want to write something about her on her special day.

By the standards of the day, I was a good girl. Because my parents were devout Christians, there was no consumption of alcohol or tobacco in our house, no one cursed (unless they thought they were alone), and the use of drugs (except for Valium) was unthinkable. The church would not allow us to go to movies where our minds and souls could be corrupted, and television revealed a fantasy world were father knows best and married men and women slept in twin beds. The Bible and Daily Devotions were read faithfully every day, but nothing else. Except for church functions, there was no social interchange, and travel was limited to religious revivals within fifty miles of home. My parents' agenda was family, work, church but not necessarily in that order. That was it. I was living my life in the pureness of black and white as defined by the church. There was no gray; there was no color; there was no drawing outside of the lines, and then I met Rita.

Rita Gomez lived on the street behind my house. It was my nature to keep every potential friend at arm's length away. By maintaining a safe barrier, I could protect myself from any hurt they might project my way. Closeness meant vulnerability and I wanted no part of that. But Rita was having no part of my aloofness and attempt at distance. She was going to be my friend so I had better get used to it.

Rita was sixteen, a year younger than me and very mature for her age. She was loud and outgoing and fun and adventurous and uninhibited. Her family was not bound by rules of their church so they drank, smoked, cursed, and went to movies. She knew so much more of the world than I did, and I was intrigued.

One Friday night, when Rita's parents had gone out to dinner and the movies, she invited me over to her house where she introduced me to whiskey and coke. What happened next would go down in my memory log as one of the stupidest, most potentially dangerous acts of my young life.

We got drunk on whiskey and coke. How we ended up at The Cup I don't recall. I do remember that we were sitting in a car next to two cute guys who were showing us attention. That was new to me and I liked how it felt. They were students from I.U., they said,  and they wanted to get to know us better. What about a tour of Indiana University in Bloomington, they asked. "Sure, why not," we two drunk girls said, and a plan was hatched.

Rita and I would go back home, drop off the car, and pretend to go to bed. Then sometime after eleven o'clock, with our families thinking we are sound asleep in our rooms, we would sneak out our windows and meet the two cute I.U. guys a block away, then head down to Bloomington for our tour of the campus. What remains a mystery to me today is where was two-year-old Lynnette all this time? I babysat her from 2:30 to 11:00 Monday through Friday and this was Friday night. Had Mother taken off work that day? Oh, no! Had I taken her with Rita and me to The Cup? Would I have been that stupid to put my precious baby sister at risk? Unfortunately, I think the answer is obvious considering my actions so far.

Sorry Mike, Bobby, Gary, Gary, Johnny, Ronnie, and Ricky. I'm going to I.U. with a cute guy who showed me some attention. Wait! I don't even know his name.

Rita and I met between our houses and ran in the dark down Mardyke Lane for about a block and there they were, two strangers waiting for us as planned. The cuter of the two held the door open for me--what? how could that be? ugly me with the cute one?--while Rita climbed into the backseat with his friend. 

Off into the pitch-black night we went. Rita and I were getting a tour of Indiana University campus--wherever that might be--and getting attention from handsome members of the opposite sex. Since I had no idea where Bloomington was; since I had no sense of direction; since I had no sense of danger; since I had no sense period, that Friday night in my seventeenth year could have easily ended much worse than it did.

Sometime in the wee hours of Saturday morning, I woke up in a dorm room, lying in a twin bed with a stranger, both of us fully clothed. I was no longer intoxicated and it took awhile to understand where I was and how I got there. I was no longer in the safe confines of my black and white world where saying "damn" is about as bad as it gets; I thought I was in trouble; big trouble. The stranger next to me was twice and big as me, and we were alone in his world now. He could do with me whatever he wanted.

"Oh, good. You're awake," the stranger said. "I have to get you back home before morning. We need to leave now." And with that he directed me out of his dorm through a window and escorted me to his car. "You really shouldn't drink so much," he said before leaving to get Rita--she must have been in another dorm room--and off we raced back to Indy. I crawled back into my bedroom window, climbed into bed, and fell fast asleep. 

I got lucky. My cute stranger--the guy who chose me instead of Rita--was one of the good guys. But would I learn my lesson? Nah!  Blame it on that damn under developed pre-frontal cortex. Oh, darn it. I said a bad word.