Then Again

by Rick Boling

  Back at the NIFS complex, we took a different hallway to another airlock and entered a room that looked like something out of a Star Trek movie. Several technicians sat at consoles around the curved walls, staring up at a bank of computer screens aglow with all manner of graphs and waveforms and digital readouts. In the center of the room, on a raised platform, stood a contraption reminiscent of a dentist’s chair, above which an array of tubes and odd-looking instruments hung from an oval cowling.

  “You know,” I said, as Aurélie led me toward the chair, “I have a particular aversion to dentists.” I stopped five feet short of the platform. “A shrink might call it a phobia.”

  “Really?” Aurélie said, pulling on my arm.

  I stood firm, refusing to move any closer. “Yes, really. It started when I was a kid and never went away. They’re all liars, you know. And their biggest lie is always some variation of ‘This is only going to hurt a little.’ Strikingly similar to what you told me about this procedure, I’d say. Not only that, but now you want me to sit in a dentist’s chair.”

  “It’s not a dentist’s chair, Rix. And I wasn’t lying, unless you consider getting a blood test unusually painful. We’ll be tapping a couple of blood vessels with needles so small you probably won’t even feel them, and the rest is just a bunch of non-invasive sensors. We have to do these things so we can monitor your vital signs and brain activity, and deliver certain drugs to slow your metabolism. I promise you won’t even have to open your mouth.”

  Still nervous, I stopped resisting and let her guide me into the chair. Technicians gathered around, placing contacts at various spots on my body and positioning my head under a helmet festooned with blinking lights. With all the confusion and activity, I hardly felt them insert the needles in my arm and upper leg, and the other procedures weren’t that uncomfortable. Aurélie held my hand through the entire procedure, squeezing now and then and assuring me they would be finished soon.

  “Another dentist lie,” I said. “I can’t remember how many times I’ve heard ‘I’m almost through,’ or ‘Just another couple of minutes,’ then had to wait an eon before they stopped drilling or pulling or scraping.” As if responding to my accusation, the team of technicians began to drift away, leaving me feeling like a newly decorated Christmas tree.

  “Okay,” said Aurélie. “Now we’re going to give you something to help you relax. I’ll be right here the whole time, though you won’t be aware of my presence. In a moment, you will wake up on the morning of your thirteenth birthday.”

  Within seconds, my vision began to blur and a feeling of calm blotted out my anxiety. As the room around me dissolved into a gray mist, I heard Aurélie’s voice echo in the distance. “Be sure to remember your keyword,” she said. Then the gray turned to black.

  My Special Angel

  I rolled over and tried to unwind from a tangle of sheets, while my aching nuts attested to the fact that I’d almost made it to the end of another wet dream. The sexual frustrations of adolescence had recently begun to plague me on a daily basis, and I was beginning to think I had some type of abnormality because I didn’t seem to be able to control my own body. And it wasn’t only in my dreams; I was often embarrassed in school by spontaneous erections that seemed to come out of nowhere. I had started to deal with this one, when Mom breezed into my room and stopped me cold.

  “Happy birthday, Ricky,” she said, leaning to kiss me on the forehead. “Too bad it’s a school day. Only two more till your party, though. C’mon now, time to get up.”

  My morning ritual in those days consisted of the standard bathroom stuff, followed by twenty minutes of weight lifting in an effort to put some muscle on what was still a fairly skinny physique. I had no way of knowing I would soon experience a growth spurt that would turn me into a six-foot-two, 180-pound, Paul Newman look-alike. Of course, the older me knew, and I also knew what awaited me downstairs was the guitar of my dreams, a brand-new Fender Stratocaster. Aurélie had warned me about the frustration of not being able to convey information to my younger self. But she also said I would get used to the limitation pretty quick, so I did my best to stop trying and enjoy hitching a ride on the younger me’s brain.

  At the time of my thirteenth birthday I was nursing an enormous crush on one Pat Williams, a tall, willowy ninth grader, with a face like Audrey Hepburn and a loose, suggestive attitude that reeked of sexuality. Pat sat two rows down from me in Chorus class, and so far all I’d managed to do was make a fool of myself passing love notes to her that elicited only sad, condescending head shakes. The fact that I had by far the best voice of anyone in the class did nothing to improve my chances with her; until, that is, the school held its annual talent show.

  By then I had made the transition from classical music to rock, and had organized a group of school buddies into a four-piece combo. We were still playing in my garage, learning tunes by Elvis Presley, Chuck Berry, Paul Anka and the like. But at the talent show, my rendition of the Bobby Helms hit, You Are My Special Angel blew the crowd away and began the process of worming me into Pat’s heart. I caught her eye early on, and while I sang the slow, pretty ballad, I used every ounce of showmanship I could muster to convey my love for her through that unique musical connection. I didn’t hear the applause, nor did I give much thought to the fact that we won the contest, because my entire world was swallowed up in Pat’s eyes. And later that night, when the phone rang and Mom yelled for me to pick up the receiver in the hall, I nearly fainted when I heard her voice.

  “Ricky?” she said. “It’s Pat. From Chorus?” I was still trying to get my mouth working when she continued. “I wanted to tell you how great you were tonight. And, well, to apologize for the way I’ve treated you this year. I was wondering if we could get together sometime. Maybe get a Coke at The Corner Shoppe or something.”

  “Uh … sure,” I stammered. “Sure. Any time.” Then, feeling somewhat emboldened, I said, “How about coming over for a swim? I’ve got a pool.”

  “That sounds great,” she said.

  Thus began my first legitimate love affair, and my realization that rock music could offer more than I’d ever dreamed.

  Pat came over the next Saturday, unfortunately with her sixteen-year-old boyfriend in his brand new ‘57 Chevy. I was devastated, but I kept up a good front, joking around and graciously accepting my third-wheel status while we swam and listened to records. My faked nonchalance apparently paid off, because later, when her boyfriend was in the bathroom, Pat told me she’d like to come back sometime without him—and for the rest of the afternoon, I couldn’t get out of the pool for fear she would notice the bulge in my bathing trunks. Finally, when she said they had to leave, I waited until they went to change, then ran up to my bedroom and put on a loose-fitting terrycloth bathrobe.

  I made it back to the patio in time to walk them to the car, and right before they drove away, Pat leaned out the window and reached for my hand. “You know,” she said, “I’ve got a birthday coming up in two weeks. Maybe you’d like to come to my party?” Again, I was rendered speechless, but I managed to squeeze her fingers and nod.

  As I watched them disappear around the corner, it occurred to me that school was about to let out for the summer, and that Mom had suggested I might want to throw an end-of-the-year pool party for some of my friends. So I decided to ask if I could turn it into a birthday party for Pat. Mom said it was okay with her, and when I asked Pat, she went through the standard routine of, ‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,’ then, ‘Are you sure it’s okay with your parents,’ and finally, ‘That’s so sweet of you, Ricky.’

  There was no way to know how she actually felt about me; whether she was attracted only by my singing or something more serious was going on. After all, she was almost two years older than I was, and in junior high school two years was an eternity. Whatever had caused her change of heart, I planned to make the best of the opportunity, and the first thing I decided to do was try to act more mature.


  For the last two weeks of school, I refrained from note-passing and other nerdy behavior. I even managed to fake a sort of suave indifference, offering perfunctory smiles when I passed Pat in the hall, and paying little attention to her in Chorus. Meanwhile, I worked frantically to prepare for the party, putting up the badminton net, cleaning the cabanas and scrubbing the tiles around the pool, and convincing Mom to let the band set up outside for a mini concert. I also spent my entire savings on Pat’s birthday gift, soliciting the help of a jeweler friend of Dad’s to design a gold charm in the shape of an electric guitar and inlay it with a tiny diamond. This was a little scary, because at our age giving a girl a piece of jewelry could be interpreted as asking her to go steady. But since it would be only one among many charms on the bracelet she always wore, I figured I could get away with it.

  Although I would have preferred the party to be a more intimate affair, I told Pat to invite whoever she wanted, and, between her friends and mine, more than fifty kids showed up. I talked our drummer Paul—who had just gotten his license—into driving me over to pick her up, and was thrilled when she agreed, because it meant she wouldn’t be arriving with a date. On the way back from her house, we were jammed together in the front seat of his dad’s Thunderbird, and the feel of her body against mine caused the inevitable hard-on. Fortunately, the new pair of tight jeans I wore kept things from showing too much.

  Mom made her famous barbecued hamburgers, and the party came off great, with lots of raucous pool fun and only two minor accidents that Dad treated with a little first aid. We topped it off with a set of live music, which had everybody dancing and cheering after each song. The old bitch across the street called the cops to complain about the noise, but by the time they arrived we had packed up our instruments. Besides, Dad knew every cop on the force, many of whom were his patients, so the two they sent out ended up eating hamburgers and telling stories about the bitch, who was notorious for filing complaints over everything from cats in heat to loud mufflers.

  There was so much going on that I didn’t have a chance to spend any private time with Pat until she was through opening her presents and everyone had finished eating cake and ice cream. I saved my present until the crowd started to thin out, and when I took her by the hand and led her to the unoccupied back porch, she didn’t protest or resist. We sat beside each other on the rattan couch, and I handed her the tiny box, whereupon she tilted her head and gave me a narrow-eyed look, as if I had overstepped my bounds.

  “Hey,” I said. “Don’t worry, it’s not an engagement ring or anything.”

  “I know, Ricky,” she said. “But you shouldn’t have done this. The party was the best gift of all. I … I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Just open it.”

  She hesitated a moment before removing the top of the box to reveal a black-velvet snap case. She flipped it open and stared at the charm for a long time without speaking. Finally, she looked up, and when I saw tears in her eyes, it felt like I’d been hit in the chest with a bowling ball. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could get a word out her lips were on mine and her tongue was halfway down my throat.

  I’d heard of French kissing, but up until that moment the only girl I’d ever kissed was an eleven-year-old cousin visiting from Ohio the previous summer. That was more or less an experiment, with clinking teeth, lots of giggling, and not a hint of passion. So I was a rank amateur when it came to kissing technique. Thankfully, however, something instinctive took over, and our tongues danced to the same rhythm until Pat pulled away and leaned her head on my shoulder. “Do you think we could find someplace a little more private?” she whispered.

  A few of the older kids had paired off and disappeared into various hideaways, one of which was the dark hallway on the second floor. And when I stood and held out my hand, she let me lead her through the kitchen and up the stairs.

  There was only one couple making out in the hall, so we moved as far away from them as we could and leaned against the wall in a dark corner. Pat wrapped her arms around my neck and nibbled at my lips as she pulled me with her to the floor. We were just getting comfortable in each other’s arms, when the hall light came on and Mom’s voice drifted up from below.

  “Okay, you guys,” she said with a humorous ‘gotcha’ in her voice. “Time to break it up.”

  Pat and I waited while the other couple straightened their clothes and disappeared into the stairwell. Then, as we got to our feet, I felt her hand drift down between my legs. “To be continued,” she said, giving me a gentle squeeze. “If that’s okay with you.”

  That summer would mark my coming-of-age. I not only lost my virginity, I had my first taste of alcohol and smoked my first joint; all at the behest of my new girlfriend, who, it turned out, was far more experienced in the ways of the world than I might have guessed. A slut, many of my friends called her, though I never thought of her that way. Pat grew up on the proverbial wrong side of the tracks, with an abusive father and a food-addicted mother who weighed in at 350 pounds and spent most of her time criticizing everything her daughter did. Who wouldn’t turn to alcohol and sex for solace and personal affirmation? Besides, Pat loved me, or so she claimed. And I never saw any evidence to the contrary.

  Music served as the catalyst for our age difference, as the band started to get paying gigs, playing parties and teen dances around town. And, although she was obviously enamored with my singing, in our quiet moments together, she made it a point to tell me her affection went much deeper than mere admiration for my vocal talents. She was also frank with me about my budding career, at one point advising me to “Scrape off that bunch of losers, and hook up with some real musicians, or you’re going to end up going nowhere.”

  But that was two years down the road. And for most of those two years we were inseparable. Not only as lovers, but as collaborators. It turned out Pat was a lot smarter than anyone gave her credit for, especially when it came to understanding the local rock scene and coming up with ideas on how to promote the group. She was first to suggest we wear matching suits, negotiating with a menswear store to provide them at a discount in exchange for our mentioning the store at all our gigs. Next, she went to work on my dad, convincing him to set us up with our own sound system. She even acted as our agent, using her looks and charm to book us weekend gigs that ranged from birthday parties to school dances to sock hops at the local YMCA.

  On the negative side, there was the booze and, later on, the drugs, both of which seemed to be career-enhancing at the time. And there were tangible benefits, not the least of which was how alcohol reduced my inhibitions and nervousness about performing, turning me into a kind of wild man on stage and allowing me to emulate stars like Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee Lewis. Unfortunately, this new bravado also gave me a false sense of invincibility, creating an ego-inflated arrogance that spilled over into my off-stage persona. What I didn’t realize at the time was that, even though I was maturing as a performer, I was still going through all the hormonal changes and emotional upheaval of adolescence. And it was the combination of all these factors that would leave me ill prepared for the shock of my parents’ divorce.

  Once again, Pat provided my support structure, comforting me and distracting me with sex and booze. She had her driver’s license by then and access to her mother’s station wagon, since the 350-pound behemoth could no longer fit in the car. Although I was an emotional basket case for a while, after I’d gone through all the stages of grief brought on by the divorce, I found myself entering a new life of almost complete autonomy. With Dad no longer around to serve as an authority figure, Mom had no power to discipline me, so I could do pretty much anything I wanted. And what I wanted, other than playing music, was to spend time with Pat, drinking and trying to break the world record for teenage orgasms.

  The divorce also laid the groundwork for a new, more profitable relationship with my dad, at least from a monetary standpoint. It seemed he was dealing with a lot of guil
t after leaving Mom for his young receptionist, and this translated into financial benefits for me—every time I stopped by his office for a visit, he would hand me a ten-dollar bill. Plus, he was much more vulnerable to Pat’s solicitations for help in promoting the band, a fact that would play a major role in establishing my reputation as a local rock star.

  The Skip School Flu

  Decades before Ferris Bueller’s Day Off hit the big screen, my friends and I were perfecting the art of undetected truancy. And by the time I turned fifteen and entered high school, we were experts at it. Pat served as our forger, copying our parents’ handwriting in authentic-looking excuse notes that often cited common illnesses. We jokingly referred to these maladies as the ‘vacationitis,’ or the ‘skip school flu,’ and one day Pat suggested I put those terms to music.

  Most of our truant days were spent on a vacant stretch of beach property owned by Paul’s dad, where we had built a roomy hut out of scrap wood and palm fronds. Inside the hut we dug two holes: one for a cooler, the other for empty beer cans, covering them with removable boards hidden under the blanket that served as the hut’s carpet. As might be expected, we were all pretty high the day Pat came up with the idea for Skip School Flu. Consequently, I wrote my first original song under the influence of a mind-altering substance, initiating a trend that would continue for decades.

  Loose and uninhibited, I started spewing out nonsensical lyrics, while Tom and I grabbed our acoustic guitars and fooled around with some chords. Before long Paul joined in on the bongos and Sam began experimenting on his bass fiddle. Pat ran to the car to get a notebook, and by the time she returned we had put together a simple chord arrangement. It took me a while to rough out the lyrics to the first verse, but after that the words started to flow more easily.