by Kevin Lucia
Silence.
Cassie waited respectfully, reluctant to intrude upon the moment, which is good. I’m moved by Dad’s words on a fundamental level, and I don’t trust myself to speak just yet. Instead, I lay the letter down, pick up the blue notebook and flip to the first page, only to be surprised once again, because on top is written: “A Night At Old Webb.”
“Holy shit.”
“What?”
I hold up the notebook, my hand shaking slightly, a part of me almost believing this is a dream I’d wake up from, or that if I show too much emotion, the notebook will disappear into thin air. “I’d thought this one was long gone. Looked for it a few times and could never find it. Figured I’d just lost it somewhere among my moves.”
“What’s it about?”
I pause, wondering how I can possibly put into words the experience I’d recorded—in a very amateurish way—on these pages, the odd occurrences that took place the summer after my senior year in high school. Which should be easy for me, seeing as how I experienced my share of odd occurrences as a teenager. Even so, I opt for the simplest answer I can think of.
I shrug. “It’s about...a girl.”
Cassie grins. “Isn’t it always?” As an afterthought, she adds in a more somber tone, “Wait. Is this something I should hear?”
“I don’t see why not. Nothing really happened between Michelle and me. And I’ve told this story to Abby. In fact, that was one of the times I dug through my other old blue notebooks, looking for this one, when I wanted her to hear the story.”
I meet Cassie’s steady gaze. “No reason why you shouldn’t hear it.”
I must admit to feeling nervous, however. I haven’t read these words in nearly twenty years. I don’t exactly remember what they say.
“So.” Cassie waves at me, “you going to read it or not?”
I look down at the notebook, open in my lap. “How about this? I’m not going to read it word for word.” I smile at Cassie, still feeling a little embarrassed. “My Dad’s praises notwithstanding, I wrote this when I was nineteen. And, if I remember my writing style from back then, I scribbled and crossed out stuff a lot. But I’ll use it as a guide, and tell you the whole story. Sound good?”
“Works for me, boss.” Cassie settles into her chair, re-adjusting her feet, as if sitting at the foot of a campfire. “Fire away.”
“The first thing you need to understand before I tell this story is that...”
The first thing you need to understand before I tell this story is how abandoned places have always called to me. I’m not sure why. Something about them intrigues me. Buildings once full of people, left forlorn and empty. I can’t help but think of all those who once walked through their halls, slept in their beds, ate at their tables and called them home or work, wondering if traces or echoes of their passing somehow seeped into the walls and floors of the places they once inhabited. It’s a well-worn cliché by now: houses, schools, hospitals, warehouses, churches (any place occupied by people) are like sponges, soaking up decades’ worth of energies, both positive and negative.
It’s why a well-told haunted house story still hums with such resonance. Something primal inside us wonders how much our homes remember their previous inhabitants. It’s why kids are forever breaking into boarded up buildings. A derelict warehouse screams: “people once worked here!” and that scream is like an irresistible siren call to those of us too curious for own good.
It’s why Clifton Heights kids make annual pilgrimages to Bassler House, or spend summer afternoons poking around the long-deserted shanty-village up in the hills behind Raedeker Park Zoo, or on Halloween Night try to sneak into the partially burned nondenominational Church of the Abiding Light on Gates Street. It’s why intrepid (foolish?) people explore the ruins of Centralia, Pennsylvania (despite the still-burning underground coal mines) or, more locally, the abandoned town of Tahuwas, just forty-five minutes north of here. There are those of us who are, for one reason or another, taken with the desire to explore long-forgotten places once teeming with people, now filled only with dust and memories.
Old Webb High was one of those places, though how much of its allure came from its abandonment rather than its seclusion from adult eyes is anybody’s guess. Twenty years ago, if you drove down Main Street and took a left onto Route 7, about five miles away from town you’d find it: Webb County Grade School. At one time it served kids living in both Clifton Heights and Old Forge. But the school districts were re-zoned in the early 70's. Most of the school's population was transferred to Clifton Heights Elementary. Since the Town of Webb School (located in Old Forge) was K-12, around 1971 or 72 the county decided to close Old Webb because its enrollment had dropped too low. The remaining numbers were easily transferred to Old Forge.
Nothing was ever done with the old building. A few years ago I did some research via Google. A few halfhearted attempts were made to turn the school into a retirement center, a residential home (first for disabled veterans, then for neglected youth) and a community recreational building. Jarred Simmons, the hotshot young Realtor back then, had also once floated the idea of turning it into an income-based apartment complex.
For one reason or another none of the ideas stuck. So in the Fall of 1992 the Town of Webb finally demolished the old school. Empty by then for nearly twenty years, the place had been falling apart. It had become something of a safety hazard, and also a regular party spot. Local teens had found several avenues of entry over the years, turning the old school into a clandestine meeting place for midnight jams and, believe it or not, romantic or at the very least illicit encounters.
I'm not ashamed to say my friends and I logged our time in “Old Webb.” Like rooting around Bassler House, exploring the littered halls of Old Webb had become a rite of adolescent passage. My friends and I spent countless hours roaming through Old Webb (always during the day), sharing stories about the tortured spirits of former students haunting those halls.
After we turned seventeen, of course, we visited Old Webb for different reasons: summer parties late Saturday nights. I don't mind admitting I drank my first beers and smoked my first cigarettes there (the latter of which didn't take, thankfully).
I also had my first encounter with a girl on one of those Saturday nights, though it surely pales in comparison to the others Old Webb saw over the years. I still don't know what to make of my experience, or the events leading up to it. I can't exactly call Michelle Titchner my “first love” because I honestly didn't know her well enough. And after the summer of 1992, I never saw her again.
But she made a lasting impact. She was the first girl I'd ever talked to. Sure, I'd spoken to girls before and considered several of them casual friends. But something happened between Michelle and I that transcended any previous relationship I'd had with any girl prior. A sharing - —for lack of a better term - —passed between us. I can't call Michelle my first love, but I can say she became the standard I measured all girls against, and no one ever measured up until I met Abby.
When email and the Internet became commonplace I tried to track Michelle down. I'd had no idea what I might possibly say to her, of course. By then - —heading to grad school - —I was savvy enough to know what little we'd shared wasn't enough to pick up again. I suppose I just wanted to see how she was doing, and to thank her for...well, thank her for spending what little time she did with me.
I did find information about Michelle Titchner, but nothing I hadn’t already known. Nor did I find any way of contacting her. Of course, I’d half expected I wouldn’t. Even if there had been a way to contact her, maybe it’s for the best that I couldn’t. Some memories are best left untouched, lest some of the gold-tinged nostalgia get rubbed off, exposing tarnished brass beneath.
Besides, wherever Michelle Titchner is, I’d like to think she knows how thankful I am. She wouldn't say it, if course. She'd just offer me the quiet, knowing smile I nearly fell in love with that summer.
* * *
Today I
marvel at how often we slipped into Old Webb the last summer it stood on Route 7. Word had spread of its impending destruction and it seemed as if everyone who'd ever crashed there wanted to visit one last time.
I'm not naive enough, however, to imagine we evaded the authorities through our own cleverness. A lot of it simply had to do with Old Webb's location. Too far away from the State Police barracks in Woodgate, it didn't warrant any notice from them. Outside Clifton Heights’ limits, it was also technically out of Sheriff Beckmore's jurisdiction, which, of course, didn't necessarily mean much either. Given Beckmore's ponderous disposition (from what I recall) Old Webb could've sat next to the police station and we probably still would've gotten away with our late night soirees.
Of course, Old Webb was part of Webb County, therefore falling under the jurisdiction of the Webb County Police. It probably made a difference that Mitch Higgins (All County Quarterback three years running), son of County Sheriff Gerald Higgins, was a regular at the Old Webb parties.
It also probably helped that we never got up to anything really bad when we gathered at Old Webb. Sure, some folks occasionally drank too much, and I already mentioned the romantic encounters part. Also, I'm not naive enough to believe no one ever indulged in the occasional joint, or back in the darker corners of Old Webb, something a bit more illicit. I never indulged nor saw anyone indulging in the harder stuff and neither did my friends, but of course that doesn't mean it never happened.
To be brutally honest, over the years I'm sure a few of those romantic encounters occurred under duress, perhaps - —shamefully - —under force. But when my friends and I hung out at Old Webb, we protected our own. I remember one night in particular when some kid from Indian Lake tried to get Lizzy Tillman in a bad place. (Was she related to you, by the way? Oh. Your aunt.) Anyway, she shouted, we came running, and the kid was lucky to escape with his face intact.
Also, I'd like to think we exhibited a bit more common sense in those days. Kids have always been a little bent, of course. Teenagers even more so. There's always going to be those wild ones who run the razor's edge a little harder than the rest or those who, for some reason or other, have a faulty conscience.
But I'd like to think we were smarter. More careful. We didn't get up to some of the crazier things I see in the news today (which makes me sound old, I know). We hung out, had a few beers, got a little loud and had a good time. I think the authorities knew this, and maybe offered us some slack because of it.
* * *
By the time my friends and I joined the scene, sneaking into Old Webb had become easy. Earlier explorers had to resort to boosting each other through broken windows around back of the school. Eventually folks got bolder and started leaving the front and side doors propped open with cinder-blocks. Since its closing, the wilderness had grown in behind and around Old Webb, effectively hiding those points of entry.
What happened to the front doors, however, proved to be a “perfect storm,” in a sense. Back when Old Webb was still alive and kicking, administrators had planted two maple trees and some rhododendron bushes on either side of the main entrance. After its closing, those trees and bushes grew unchecked. They shielded the front door from the road's view, forming a leafy wall completely concealing the front entrance. Any car driving by - —even at slow speeds - —would never see the front doors past the foliage. The place appeared closed up and secure.
Duck under the maples' branches and you found something reminiscent of Peter Pan or some other fairy tale. A pocket where nothing had grown for twenty years. Under those maple branches, Old Webb's threshold and front doors were completely clear. Over the summers the front doors were always left propped open, a gateway to Saturday night freedom, safe and secure behind its green wall. When fall hit and our camouflage started to thin, someone would always shut the front doors, leaving the side and back doors cracked open. No one much went out there during the other seasons. It was an unspoken rule: Old Webb was a summer place only.
In retrospect, it's easy to see how someone in authority must've been giving us a blind eye. Back then, however, I suppose we simply thought we were that clever.
Past the front doors was the main lobby where the front office used to be. A hall led to the gymnasium, Saturday night’s main destination. During the day, younger kids explored all of Old Webb's nooks and crannies. If I remember correctly, everyone avoided the basement, though. It was pitch black and crowded with desks, chairs and other pieces of furniture.
At night, older teens and recent graduates congregated in the gymnasium. We met in there for practical reasons. It was located in the back of the building away from the road. and the trees had crowded in close to Old Webb over the years, shielding the gym's narrow, rectangular windows. Most practical of all, the gymnasium was an easily lit, wide-open space. Plenty of room to spread out and relax. Dozens of chairs and desks had been dragged into the gym over the years, arranged into small clusters where folks drank and talked the night away. Someone had jimmied the athletic supplies closet open and dragged out wrestling mats and high jump pits, arranging them in the corners, creating lounge spaces.
Back in the seventies lots of those old gyms had tile flooring instead of wood. Old Webb had been one of them. Because of this, a few old barrels had been dragged into the gym for use as makeshift fireplaces. We were really careful, however, always keeping the fires low, making sure they were out when we left. It never got cold in there anyway. Mostly we wanted fire more for burgers and hot dogs than for warmth.
I'm not going to pretend our gatherings at Old Webb held any mystical significance. Basically, for twenty years or so, kids sneaked into Old Webb on summer Saturday nights to hang out, drink, roast burgers or hot dogs and grope in the shadows. Every town has a place the kids flock to avoid parental supervision. Old Webb was ours.
Even so we managed to make it uniquely “"ours.”" One example: the graffiti. As you can expect, two decades worth of graffiti accumulated on the walls of Old Webb's gymnasium. Alongside the predictable teenage profanities existed personal expressions of hope, sadness and melancholy. Also, among the graffiti was some of the most striking pieces of art I've ever seen. Everyone's favorite was a mural taking up a whole wall, of the solar system from the moon's perspective, looking over the swollen curve of a glowing blue Earth. I've been to dozens of cities over the years and seen many stunning pieces of graffiti art in tunnels, on underpasses, and on the sides of trains, but I've yet to see anything better than the Old Webb Universe. No one knew who painted it, either. Seemed like it had always been there.
Word of Old Webb traveled the teenage grapevine over the years, bringing in folks from as far away as Indian Lake, Lake George and Woodgate. The “"regulars”" attended schools all across and outside Webb County. Encountering new people we'd never seen before turned into a weekly occurrence. I can't count how often one of us would ask on the way there, “Wonder who'll show up tonight?”
That's why I didn’t thinktwice when Michelle Titchner came the first summer night of 1992. With all the new people coming and going every year, I'm sure I assumed she attended either Old Forge, Inlet, Eagle Bay or Tawahus High.
I remember when I finally did notice her. My friends and I were lounging around the wrestling mats. Sipping from our beers and eating the hot dogs we'd roasted. Chatting about nothing and everything at once. I don't remember what we talked about, at all. Whatever it was seems trivial, now, compared to my first sight of Michelle Titchner.
“Hey,” I said abruptly, interrupting Fitzy telling us some story about this girl he'd met at a nightclub in Utica, “who is that?”
Everyone fell silent and turned, following my gaze. They, likewise, seemed struck by Michelle's presence. Myself, I'll never forget my initial sighting. It's superseded in my mind only by the sight of Abby walking down the aisle on our wedding day.
She was standing with a few folks next to one of the barrel fires. I can be honest in saying I don't remember much about what she wore. Maybe it'
s me - —or maybe it was Webb County and the Adirondacks in general – —but thinking back, the clothing styles of the early nineties seems bland. Like tapioca pudding. Or maybe back then (like now), I had no fashion sense, because for me jeans and a t-shirt mostly comprised the entirety of my wardrobe.
No, what I remember most about Michelle is her long, black hair. Maybe it's only flight of fancy or simple nostalgia, but I could swear it reached down to the middle of her back. Raven black, thick, lustrous, wavy – —which is an important distinction. In the early nineties “big hair” was still hanging on. I'd never been a fan of that particular eighties quirk. Michelle's hair wasn't big. It flowed down in waves of loose curls. The kind a guy wants to bury his face in.
Also, the way she stood. Relaxed, one hand in her pocket, the other holding a bottle of beer with the loosest nonchalance. It spoke of someone easy in their skin, someone content with who they were. Though I've always considered myself reasonably well-adjusted I don't think I've ever felt a similar level of confidence.
She was tall. Nearly as tall as me. She didn't look like a basketball player or an athlete, but she moved with a certain kind of grace. I suppose she owed this largely to her confident posture.
And while my friends unabashedly ogled her, before I was aware of my actions, the kid who sat quietly in the back of the classroom and preferred to slide through life unnoticed stood and walked over to her. To this day I've never been able to account for this spasm of boldness. In high school I was the nice guy who didn't talk much. Unless I was on the basketball court, I felt more comfortable remaining in the background. Back then my chief goal was to draw as little attention to myself as possible. Most of the time, I achieved that with flying colors. Between my small group of comrades and the basketball team, I had enough friends. I didn't much feel the need to talk to anyone else. And like a lot high school guys, I was secretly scared to death of acting like an idiot in front of girls.