2am Entry: Preamble June 1st, 2001 I never know how to start these things. So I’ll just start writing. I know that summer, according to nature or some farmer’s calendar, is supposed to start June 21st officially. But to me, once you hit June 1st, i.e. today, all bets are off. So brace yourself world, MY summer has begun. I’m 18, fresh outta high school, and headed off for college. Fuck. I think I’ll leave that wound alone for a while. I feel like I should be introducing myself here, but I want to do it without listing things about me or just spelling it out period. Maybe I should brush my teeth and then come back. Then again, a lot of people (like myself) do a lot of comprehensive thinking on the crapper. But you can’t write in a journal while sitting on the pot. Nor do I want to. And what do I want to say? Do I have a statement to make? Probably not. So this one is just for me. A space and a place to put the thoughts in my head over the summer. Now I just gotta come up with a title for what will undoubtedly be a magnum opus of teen angst. And that kind of thinking you can do on the crapper. So I think I’ll go now. To think, to shit, then probably back to bed. I love summer. Entry: 2AM June 9th, 2001 Blink and you miss a beat. Keep one of your eyes open at all times. Think that you’re on the brink? The shit hasn't even begun to hit the fan. Consequence you'll see will be stranger than a gang of drunken mimes. Situation has a stink. Better clear the air before your son becomes a man. You better think fast! 'Cause you never know what's coming around the bend. You better not blink. Consequence is a bigger word than you think. –Consequence, Incubus If it hadn’t been two o’clock in the friggin morning I probably wouldn’t have done what did. But when it gets to be late at night or early in the morning (whatever), I become a different person, I think. Just a little more mellow than the norm, and up for just about anything. Not that I ever get drunk (it’s not my style), or high (also not my style), I just get…weird. You’ll see what I mean. We were just getting back to my friend Tom Jenkins’ house Friday night, Tom, Randy and I, and we were in a pretty good mood. The movie we’d seen, Swordfish, had been a pretty decent flick for the five bucks we’d paid to see it (with student ID of course) and we were pretty chatty about it. And our (very rapidly approaching) plans for senior week. Midnight showing=zero people in the theatre= great seats; + good movie that cost 5 bucks to get into (because of the student discount at the theatre here in Columbia)= a good time had by all. Tom Jenkins, Randy Donaldson, and I are ¾ of a band we started called What’s Wrong with this Picture? Either because there’s 3 guys and one girl in our band, or 3 white folk and one black guy, or one Jewish guy and 3 other—you get the picture. It’s supposed to be clever. Oh shut up. Anyway, Randy, complaining about having to wake up at 6am to go to work (he works at a bakery), got into his car and left when we got back to Tom’s house. I didn’t have to be to work till 4pm the next day, but my curfew was at 2am and I wasn’t going to make it home on time with a 15-minute drive ahead of me from Fulton to Highland at 1:55. So the rule was I had to call my parents and tell them I’d be late coming home late. I followed Tom into the house. Tom and I both live in one of those cookie-cutter, planned community, new development neighborhoods where all of the aluminum sided houses look exactly the same. Remember ET? Well it’s pretty much the same deal. Tom’s house was especially forgettable because his parents, along with some of their neighbors, had decided to get the same semi “house-in-the-country” look, complete with variations on the color white. Off-white, beige, cream (Tom’s house), etc., etc. Our band sometimes practiced at Tom’s house, and if I had a nickel for every time I drove right past it without thinking…Christ. There were mad cars out on the narrow two-way street in front of Tom’s house, and in his driveway. That meant Tom’s older brother, Archie (that’s right, Archie; are Tom’s parents cool or what?), was having a party in honor of his parents being in Italy for a month. When we entered the house there were empty bottles of various types of alcohol and shot glasses left on the dining room table, as well as random articles of clothing in different places. A shirt here, a thong there, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the college folk had all gotten smashed and were “chillin out” in other parts of the house. Either in the backyard, the basement or the upstairs bedrooms… Mercifully there was no one in the kitchen cause there is nothing more embarrassing then checking in with your MOM in front of a buncha college kids. I was making the call when Maria Patterson walked into the kitchen to get some OJ from the fridge. Damn. My mom picked up on the third ring. “Mackenzie?” “Yeah, ma, it’s me.” I looked at Maria as she drank the juice straight out of the carton. Whatever, man. “Where are you?” “Tom’s. The movie just let out and I wanted to call and say I was going to be late coming home.” “How late?” My mother, Zora, had that don’t-start-no-shit-with-me tone in her voice. “I’m leaving in a minute.” Maria raised an eyebrow at me. “Okay. Be careful out there Mackenzie.” “I will ma. Bye.” “Goodbye.” She hung up. I fiddled around with Tom’s cordless for a minute trying to figure out how to turn the damn thing off. Maria just looked at me, amused. * * * I’d known her since I was about 11 or 12. She was 5’7 with an athletic frame to say the least. Long brown hair, which cascaded over a traditionally oval-shaped face that, boasted very delicate features and rosy cheeks. Her ass was tight…round, and her tits were nice too. She had that girl-next-door thing down pat. Christ did she ever. Her best feature: her eyes. Big round, ocean-blue eyes that were always laughing or sparkling, Maria looked as if she could tell you exactly what you were thinking at any given time, so it was best to stay on your toes. Her brother, Oliver, was the same way. They looked a lot alike but Maria was older by two years, 20, while Oliver was my age. Except Oliver is a huge walking penis. I really hate the guy. We went to middle school together and had been on the same baseball team in little league, which I couldn’t stand, but it’s also where I met Maria. She always came to cheer on Oliver and our team and after games I would make fun of her for doing so because I had a huge crush on her. Not much had changed. I’d hoped to run into her again tonight. Earlier, I’d seen her when the boys and I were leaving out at close to 12 for the movie. She was on her way into the party with a girlfriend when she stopped us at Tom’s car. “Do you recognize me?” She’d asked. It was pitch black out, but in the faint light of the street lamp and the glow of her cigarette, she looked familiar. “I think so.” “I’m Maria Patterson. Oliver’s sister. Remember you and my brother were on the same little league team. “Oh yeah! Now I remember.” “You’re Oliver’s sister?” Tom asked. “Yeah.” “I hate that guy.” Tom said. See it’s not just me. “Yeah,” I chimed in, “He’s a dick.” “Aww, that’s mean.” Maria’s friend was frowning at us now like we’d offended her. “It’s true.” I insisted. Randy chimed in to agree with Maria’s friend. Traitor. I swear he takes the opposite of your opinion just to piss you off. Damn Randy. “I remember how you used to make fun of me all the time when you were little.” Maria smiled, and then took another drag from her cigarette. “Yeah, that’s because I had the biggest crush on you back then.” WHAT? Did that just come out of my mouth?! Y’see? Sometimes you dig your own grave. “Aww, really?” He eyes sparkled. “Yeah you were really pretty.” “Aww, thank you.” She came over and hugged me. That was pretty cool; I’m big on hugs. I won’t bore you with the rest. The boys and I shot the brass for a while with the ladies about high school, graduating and all that. Even earned some “oooh’s” to add to those “aww’s.” Then we got in the car and left for the movie. Randy said in the car: “I can’t believe you told her you had a crush on her.” “Neither can I.” I’d shrugged then, trying to play it off. “But what does she care anyway?” The truth is I’m a pretty honest and open guy but never so candid toward women. It’s out of character for me. * * * But here I was again facing a similar situation as we stared each other down in the kitchen. I knew I had to go home, but something inside wouldn’t let me. “You leavin?” Maria asked. “Not yet.” I told her. “How are you going to explain that to your mom?” I could hear the quotation marks around “mom.” “I live 15 minutes away in Highland,” I told her. “I’ll say there were a bunch of cops on the road and I had to drive slow.” “Good lie.” She said. “I know.” “Do you often lie to your parents?” “Only when I have to.” She laughed. “So why are you staying anyway?” Maria raised her eyebrows again. I stared into her eyes and nearly got lost. “You want the truth?” “Yeah, I do.” She folded her arms across her chest. “You.” I answered truthfully. Here I go again. “Me?” “Yeah, see I figure if I stay then I got a good chance of getting drunk and spending the night trying to hook up with you and possibly succeeding. I’d like that.” In my head, I took a large swan dive off the mental deep end of rationality. “You’re very honest.” “It’s the fear talking.” Her eyebrows were raised so high I thought they’d become a part of her hairline. “Fear’s making you talk like this?” “Uh-huh.” “Fear of what?” Maria asked. “Rejection.” She laughed again. It was infectious but I just smiled. “So you want to hook up with me?” she asked. “Yes please.” Another laugh, then she asked, “What kind of hooking up?” “Well I dunno,” I said. “I’d be happy with just making out, but I’m a guy and sex is an obvious issue, so I’d probably try to get into your pants. But I don’t have a condom with me so I might not go through with that, cause I’d never have sex without one.” I could tell her interest was piqued. “Okay,” she started looking at me as if she were sizing me up. “Do you have a car?” “Of course.” “Good. Then lets go to the store.” “For what?” I asked. “Condoms.” A very matter-of-fact tone from her. “Okay.” And this is how I found myself driving to Giant’s Supermarket at 2:10 in the morning to get condoms. Christ on a crutch. We were in the condom isle, talking about sex and freaking out the late-night staff when she asked, “You’re not usually like this are you?” “No, I’m not.” I told her. “I’m usually pretty shy.” “So why the cool guy routine tonight?” “I told you,” I said. “Fear.” “Of rejection?” she looked up from the condoms and laughed, then tossed her hair back over her shoulder. Oh. My. God. She was a walking Pantene Pro-V commercial, complete with slow-motion hair flips. “Doesn’t the fact that we’re shopping for condoms in the middle of the night clue you in that you’re gonna get lucky?” she asked. “Until your dick is in the hole, expect nothing.” It was official; I was no longer in control of my mouth. When I found who was, I was going to beat the shit out of em.’ “This is crude but true.” She said. “Right.” I went back to looking at condoms. Trojans suck by the way. All the best ones (and this is also true for cartoons) are made in Japan. Go freaking figure. I looked up in surprise as I realized something. “Hey,” I started. “Shouldn’t I be half drunk or something?” Again, I don’t drink at all, but here I was protesting it. What the hell is wrong with me? “I guess so,” she said. “But that’s a technicality. Tell you what, I got buzzed enough for the both of us at the party. Does that count?” “Whatever.” I say that a lot. “Exactly.” She said. Then she grinned. “So how good are you?” “Decent...I guess?” There was no false modesty in my voice. “That’s better than most. How about size?” “I’m bigger wider than I am longer.” Jesus, I couldn’t believe the things coming out of my mouth. But strangely, I was enjoying myself. “Favorite position?” This was a naughty grin I was seeing. It was the same sort of smile you might get from the devil right before he conned you into signing your soul away. Seductive. Evil. I stifled a shiver and simultaneously grew a boner. Oh fuck you I’m a guy. Picking up the box of condoms I’d been searching for (Durrex extra sensitive for your information), I grinned back at her as I displayed my discovery. “I think we’ll have enough in here to try as many as you want.” There was a challenge in my voice. She matched it with the smile she gave me. It said, Mackenzie Morgan…soon your name will be Bitch. I should be so lucky. Oh wait, I was. Hehe. Somewhere in the sex marathon that followed I think we hit some of the Kama Sutra’s Greatest Hits (I once read the cliff-notes version). With Tom’s parents out of the country (where they couldn’t hear the very vocal Mary Patterson), and everyone else doing pretty much the same thing in other parts of the house, Maria and I stayed under Tom’s radar. He’d have freaked. And he would have told Aurora, and what’d a mess that’d be. Anyway, I won’t go into all the details of the sex. Just know it was good. I know that if in the opposite position, I’d want to hear the gory details (cause I’m a perve), but lucky for me I was there when it happened. Too bad for you, but you can imagine. I shouldn’t have done it in the first place, but what can I say? It was two o’clock in the goddamn morning; no one is ever in their right state of mind. Right away when I woke up, I knew I was screwed, but in a bad way as opposed to last night. I’d spent the night with a girl two years older than me (in Tom’s basement) after telling my parents I was on my way home. If I knew my mother my face was already plastered on milk cartons across the country and she’d been to the county morgue at least three times to see if I’d been admitted. If I knew my father, then I knew the proper thing to do now was sign up for the Witness Protection Program to prevent a future crime of murder, mainly my own. The strange thing was I didn’t regret anything that Maria and I had done last night/this morning (whatever). In fact, I was happy as hell. I reached over and draped my arm over Maria and grinned at the ceiling. She stirred next to me on the couch and I saw her smile. Damn post-coital bliss. “You ok?” she asked me. “Yeah, I got laid last night.” “I know. I was there.” “You were watching?” She laughed. Then said, “Good. For a moment I thought you were going to revert back to a high school state of mind.” “I’ll wait till I get home, where that kind of stumbling will be more appropriate.” “Are you in trouble?” she asked. “You have no idea.” “You wanna tell me about it?” “No.” I answered bluntly. There was a pause. Then she said, “Maybe you should give me your phone number. I might be compelled to do this again.” “I’d like it the other way around if you don’t mind.” She smiled the naughty smile at me again. Hello morning wood! “Oh no, I always like to make the guy sweat it out.” “Haven’t you worked me enough?” I asked in faux-exasperation. She laughed, and then I wrote my number down on the back of a gum wrapper and gave it to her. “Use it.” I said. “Maybe,” she smiled playfully, then got up off the couch (naked) and began to collect her clothes. Oh. My. God. I got dressed, kept my hands to myself, kissed her goodbye, then left. I doubt if Tom even knew I’d stayed. I hoped not. I spent the entire ride home contemplating life, the sex I’d gotten last night/this morning (ugh), and the shit I was in when I got home. And all with a smile on my face. * * * That’s all I remember because the next thing I knew, I was waking up. Really waking up this time. In my own bed. At my house. Jesus I was disorientated. My heart sank, when I realized it’d all been a dream. Well most of it anyway. Everything after I’d called my mother had been my mind’s sick fabrication to make up for what truly happened as opposed to what I wanted to happen. My actual conversation with Maria in the kitchen came back with startling regret: “You leavin?” “Yeah, I got stuff to do tomorrow.” “Really?” She poked out her lips in a pout. “Yeah. But I don’t really wanna go but…you know.” I am such a fucking moron. Maria looked hopeful. “You could stick around for a while…” she trailed off. I knew I could have gotten into a situation that would at least be similar to the one I would later dream about, but I still said, “No I really should go.” Then I’d left. How’s that for an introduction? I should explain myself. That’s the whole purpose of this anyway isn’t it? To use this as an introduction of sorts. My name is Mackenzie Morgan, and I’m an 18-year-old high school graduate moving into the next stage of life without my own permission. But I can’t stop it. I don’t have the balls to do anything (like confront my parents or join the Army). I enjoy my freedom. Playing guitar in my band, sleeping in whenever I can. I’m a messed up kid. Mackenzie Morgan, child of pop culture, as we all are, excluding those of us in the human race living in seclusion or something dumb like that. And it’s not just TV; it’s film, radio, print and the Internet too. All your base are belong to us, and all that. You can’t avoid it in the .COM, .TV, and .NET universe we live in. None of us can avoid the impending information kingdom come we’re overloading ourselves to. But now I’m just rambling. So I’ll get down off the soapbox. “A space and a place to put the thoughts in my head.” That sounds about right. I can use this to help me chronicle the events of this summer and sort them all out. Something tells me I’m gonna need this in the long run. Dreams hopes and ramblings. My thoughts. My world. Am I really that interesting? I doubt it. But it’s bedtime for now. As I write this, the time approaches 2am, and I’m feeling weird again. Best to hit the sheets before I do something stupid like call Aurora, or even worse, Rosey, and tell them the story. Christ. More on that later. Whatever.
Copyright © 2001 MacKenzie Morgan |