That night in July we met at a sandpit bordering the graveyard. I had come with my boyfriend Walker and his buddies. It felt like most of our other aimless, small-town summer nights. While the boys drank Budweiser, my boyfriend gave me a driving lesson. He had a ‘63 Rambler. The front seats went all the way back, perfect for exploring each other’s bodies. And I loved that boy, too. Almost fifty years later I can still recall his scent: Clearasil, Right Guard, Safeguard. All mixed with the musky aroma of sweat and desire.
The next year he would be off to college, unless he was drafted, and then who knew. But this night, carefree, we drove in circles, me behind the wheel, listening to Neil Young on the 8-track player.
Then I stalled out; when I restarted the ignition I panicked, digging the wheels deeper. We called the boys to help us, but they wanted to get home. The first moon landing would be broadcast. As cool as we thought we were, no one wanted to miss it.
We couldn’t budge the car. The gang left us in time to see Armstrong and Aldrin take their first bouncing steps, as unsteady as the boys after drinking their 16-ounce cans of beer. We left the car in the sand and walked home.
It wasn’t until 20 years later, at a wedding or a funeral, that my boyfriend confessed how disappointed he was at missing history. He joked about it, but I could tell. It hadn’t mattered to me. I was firmly planted on the earth with people I loved. They were not drafted yet. I could still taste his sex in my mouth that night. That is what I remembered.
My boyfriend got a high draft number, but we broke up anyway. I moved out of state; the boys all stayed in our small town. Most survived, but not all. Whenever I returned home over the years for this one’s wedding or funeral, our talk always drifted back to the night in the sand pit, the night I got the Rambler stuck, the night we zigzagged through the woods back home, everyone sitting on the edge of couches in small ranch houses, tuned in on their black and white Motorolas, hoping it wasn’t a trick, expecting that the world was going to change any minute.
Lenore Balliro lives in Dartmouth, MA
