It was Halloween, as I recall. Senior year of high school. The last Halloween of my diminishing adolescence. Every year, the Thompson’s threw a blowout bash to celebrate the occasion.
The matriarch, Marjorie Thompson, always dressed as the ‘beer wench’, a costume comprised of low cut Octoberfest garb, pigtails and ruby red lipstick. She had a thirst for flirtation and the reputation of a vixen.
My buddies and I congregated in the backyard where most of the teens and college-aged kids partied underneath the faint glow of overhead string lights. Iced tubs of beer, kegs and even a small fire surrounded a magnificent swimming pool that had its own illustrious history of flesh and bone.
Around beer number four, my bladder painfully reminded me of its existence and insisted on attention. Making my way into the house, I noticed the ‘adult side’ of the party had gotten quite a bit dimmer lighting-wise. The already scant costumes were fitting a bit more loosely, hanging a bit lower or in some cases not at all.
I shuffled through the crowd, sipping my beer and greeting a couple of the people from the community I knew. One would think it would have been strange or perhaps even momentarily awkward to suddenly walk past a sixty-eight-year-old man whose lawn you used to mow grinding on a former middle school social studies teacher. But, in the moment, alcohol makes everyone good friends and in that moment I was proud of old Mr. Wilkerson. So much so that I gave him a high five over Ms. Donahue’s head.
Finally making my way into a half bathroom, I set my beer on the counter and commenced my business. Halfway through, the bathroom door that I had apparently forgotten to lock swung open. A fairly drunk Mrs. Thompson plowed in with her pigtails and beer-wench ordeal.
“Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was in here,” she said not turning to leave, but making herself comfortable against the counter.
“Um…yeah. It’s me. Here I am,” I replied, still in mid-flow. She stood there for a moment while I wondered if I should finish and wrap up or try to cut it short. A beer flow does not like to be cut off prematurely, so I just finished my business while Mrs. Thompson stood by the sink.
“So, are you having fun at the party?” She asked.
“Uh…yes mam. Sure am.”
“You boys being safe out there, right?”
“Oh yes, no doubt about that. Just some young teenage fun,” I replied trying not to let my eyes wander down to the excessive cleavage tumbling my direction. After finishing, I wrapped myself up and flushed. I needed to move by her to wash my hands in the sink. She didn’t budge at my advance, so I stood next to her nearly skin to skin as I dipped my hands under the faucet.
“It’s a good night. Beautiful outside, too. I always look forward to these parties every year. Everyone is always just so more laid back and open.”
“Yeah, a good time, for sure.” My hands trembled a bit, soap and water dripping down the sink drain.
“Is this your beer?” she asked holding the bottle up in front of her.
“Yes, mam.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Don’t call me mam. You make me feel so ancient.”
“Um… yes ma — I mean, yeah sure thing…girl.”
She laughed tilting her head back. “You’re funny,” she said softly resting her hand on my shoulder. “You know, you really have turned into quite a handsome young man.”
“Oh, thanks. Yeah, you know…I’ve been working out and stuff.”
She laughed again as she handed my beer back to me, then proceeded to put the toilet seat down. She ran her hands up her costume skirt and pulled down her underwear. As she sat down on the toilet she looked up at me and smiled.
“I bet you’re beating all of the young ladies off with a stick.”
“Yep. That’s me,” I uttered in a nervous tone trying to keep my teenage eyes where they should have been. “Beating them off with a stick alright.”
She finished her business and put herself back together as I took a drink of my beer. Standing, she moved in closer to me, then turned and looked into the mirror hanging above the vanity counter.
“I hope you enjoy this time.”
Turning, I faced the mirror as well, our eyes connecting, reflecting in the pale bathroom light.
“I’m sorry?”
“I want you to enjoy this time. It doesn’t come around again. This age I mean. Being a teenager. Being young. At least not in this lifetime.”
She looked me over in the mirror. “Handsome. Vibrant. I’m sure you hear stuff like this all the time. I know I used to. And, like most kids, I ignored it as something all adults say. Until I started saying it myself.”
“I guess it’s like that old ‘youth is wasted on the young’ cliche.”
“I suppose,” she replied thoughtfully, eyes drifting down. “It’s more than that, though. When you’re young, you have so much going for you that you take for granted. Always impatient for the next thing. That thing that will make you happy. It’s only when you get older you realize that thing you couldn’t wait for doesn’t really exist. All the time you wasted on trivial things could have been spent doing so much more. When you’re young. And you can. Even if some of those things are just having fun. Laughter without responsibility. You’d be amazed at how much you’ll miss just going to sleep at night not feeling like you’re responsible for the whole world.”
“But, I already feel like that. Sometimes I can hardly get to sleep at all.”
“I know, darling,” she said grabbing my cheek softly. “I can see it in your eyes.” Her hands, soft and moist, seemed to etch crevices down my jawline.
“Go enjoy your life,” she whispered into my ear just before lightly grazing my lips with hers.
“Yes, mam. I mean…thanks…girl.” She smiled slightly, then left just as suddenly as she came in. I stood in silence for a moment, then took another sip of the beer that had gotten a bit too warm.
To this day, I can’t recall ever having seen Mrs. Thompson again in person. Later in life, I’d heard she had gotten breast cancer. Though she fought it courageously, eventually it got the better of her.
I always wondered if I should have visited her during that time, but I never did. I suppose part of me wanted to remember her that way, in the bathroom, in the night. A beer wench costume that hung loosely among those funny, faded string lights. Already reminiscing on a life once lived.