This is a blend of excerpted stories from a fictionalized autobiography I wrote about my teenaged years called "Mira Vista Park." I ended up turning it into a screenplay instead. Thought it'd be fun to post some of the stories.
LET’S GET NAKED
I fell in love with Marty Koutz a year before I ever saw him.
My senior year at Presentation High, I always heard girls in my class talking about the guys who hung around at Mira Vista Park in Richmond. They were all ‘foxes’ and had tattooed the park’s initials, MVP, on their arms. They sounded exciting and so very cool. They were bad boys. And all the girls wanted them.
The guy they talked about the most was Marty Koutz. They talked about how good-looking he was, so tall, so sexy. It wasn’t even the things the girls said that interested me in Marty, it was the enthusiasm with which they said it - the tone of their voice, those pregnant pauses after they’d say his name. He was the most desirable guy on the planet. He was bigger than life. I wanted him too.
I started going by Mira Vista Park right after my high school graduation. During those warm lazy days, Marty and the other guys would always be sitting on the lawn, lounging in the summer sun, listening to music or talking. Occasionally everyone would look up to watch a car drive by. There was a sense of ownership of the street that ran in front of the park. It was their street. And if you drove by you were subject to the scrutiny of the Park members, judged and categorized as friend or enemy, local resident, curiosity seeker, wannabe, or possible NARC.
The park itself was a deceptively small-looking expanse of green lawn, right in the middle of a residential area, which stretched back into wild dense woods with a creek running through it. This was where the unobservable took place, where everyone, one at a time - so as not to attract attention, would casually rise and wander back to when someone had scored some pot or alcohol, or to hide from the cops who came by every evening at sunset to kick them out.
After sundown, there was always a party. Word would spread and carloads of rowdy teens would descend onto the party scene, whooping it up and yelling, “Let’s get naked.” The guys were always yelling, “Let’s get naked!” It was their mantra, their war cry and their hope that one day some free spirited or overly intoxicated girl would comply.
Alcohol was a necessity at Park parties and it was easy for us to get. All you had to do was drive up to Heights Liquors on the hill, pick out your beverage and pay. No I.D., no questions. The standard taste in alcohol ran from cheap to cheaper. The objective was quantity, not quality. Most of us girls preferred the sweeter wines; Fruity-flavored Ripple or Muscatel. Others preferred beer, and of course there was always plenty of Red Mountain. Red Mountain was the cheapest wine you could buy in the biggest, screw-top, gallon bottle. Actually nowhere on the bottle were even printed the words ‘wine.’ But none of us had a palate educated enough to notice the difference. It was close enough and we drank it. Red Mountain was sour and nasty tasting and even nastier vomited out, which was pretty likely to happen if you consumed more than a few glasses. Red Mountain was a party staple. So was vomiting.
Rhonda called that afternoon. She had heard there was going to be a big Mira Vista Park party that night. She was sure her parents would let her go if she said she was going with me. I’d known Rhonda since I was twelve and she was my best friend. Her parents liked me. The fact that I’d attended Catholic school made them think I was safe. She said she’d come by to get me at seven. I hung up the phone and went to ask my mother if I could go. It was always easier to approach my mother with these things. If I’d ask my father, he’d just try to turn it into some kind of philosophical discussion about “Did I really need to go to a party?” and top that off with some vague and inappropriate metaphor about “Not going out in the rain without an umbrella.” And after all that, I’d still have to get approval from my mother anyway, so it just made sense to ask her first.
She was downstairs, sitting in her chair. My parents had matching leather recliners on opposite ends of a couch facing the TV. My father always sat fully reclined in his chair and usually fell asleep, but my mother never relaxed in hers. She sat erect, as if the chair was made of steel and had a straight uncomfortable back. She worried about posture a lot; hers, my sister’s, mine. And she reminded us all at least twenty times a day to sit up straight. It was this pressure that led to my recurring teenaged ‘posture’ nightmares, in which I suffered tragic consequences as a result of slouching.
I put my shoulders back, stood up straight, rehearsed my speech and approached her. I told her about the ‘birthday’ party I had been invited to. I figured it sounded more friendly and innocent with the word birthday tacked on. I was careful to mention Rhonda’s name several times and that her parents had approved. See, my parents knew that Rhonda’s parents were strict, so putting their name in the mix made getting permission easier. But this time, she decided to be difficult. She got into this whole conversation with my father about why someone would be having a party on a week night. My father responded with trite phrases that had nothing to do with the subject like, “Birds of a feather flock together” and “What goes around, comes around.” Neither of them understood the Mira Vista Park mentality: You partied whenever and wherever you could. No one had a job. What did we care if it was a week night or not? But I nodded my head and agreed a party on a weeknight was strange. They said I could go.
I spent the next few hours picking out my clothes. I knew Marty Koutz would be at the party so I wanted to look my best. I decided on a witchy-looking black satin blouse that I had made from the skirt of an old formal bought at a thrift store. It had long bell sleeves and a deep V-neck, which would’ve been sexy if at the time, I’d had any breasts to speak of. I decided to wear the new furry black coat my mother had bought me too. I knew it’d make her happy because I never liked anything she bought. But this coat, I liked the way I looked in it. As my mother passed my room, she reminded me that I’d look a whole lot better if I stood up straight.
While I waited for Rhonda to show up, I sat on my bed and fantasized about the party and twenty hopeful scenarios with me and Marty. In all of them, he was overcome by my beauty and how cool I was, and spent the evening by my side, laughing and talking with his friends, until he could no longer share me with others. Then he’d lead me off to some quiet spot where we could be alone. I saw it all so clearly in my mind that I was convinced this was how the evening would turn out. Tonight would be the night that would bring Marty and I together.
When Rhonda arrived, she was polite to my parents and told them we would be going to the party with our friend Dana, and that Dana’s mother, who was a nurse, was driving us there. My father said we should tell Dana’s mother “To drive like she owns the car, not the road.” Rhonda laughed like she really thought that was funny, while I rolled my eyes in embarrassment.
We left the house and Rhonda started walking in the opposite direction of the Park. I asked her where we were going and she snapped at me to just “Come on.” We walked up the street a few houses, and I noticed a beat up old gray Chevy parked at the top of the hill. In the driver’s seat was Robert, the guy Rhonda had been dating behind her parents’ back. Robert smiled and waved as Rhonda picked up her pace and headed toward the car. She hadn’t said anything about Robert going to the party with us. That bothered me because it changed the dynamic of our evening. Instead of two girlfriends hanging out together, flirting with guys, dancing, then checking in with each other from time to time to exchange gossip, it was going to be me and a couple. Rhonda was no fun when she was with Robert. They were madly in love and constantly clinging and groping each other. When I’d talk to her, they’d both stand there, arms around each other like Siamese twins and react to me as one. It wasn’t fun. But then I thought about my plan. I was going after Marty tonight anyway, so it really didn’t matter if Robert was there or not.
Rhonda jumped into Robert’s car and slid across the seat, into his mouth and down his throat. I got in, closed the door, locked it, rolled down the window, straightened my clothes so as not to wrinkle my satin blouse and waited five minutes for Rhonda and Robert to finish kissing. When they separated, Robert leaned forward to say hi to me. His mouth was smeared with Rhonda’s plum lip gloss, which made him look like some sort of crazed clown when he smiled. Rhonda was already reapplying a fresh layer of shine. She turned to me and said that she and Robert weren’t going to the party. I didn’t understand. When was this decision made? Was there some kind of silent message passed from mouth to mouth that was given, received, and agreed upon all in the course of a few slobbery minutes? I got upset and reminded her that she and I had talked about going to the party all day and that I had counted on it. She didn’t like the fact that I was making a fuss about it and she gave Robert a look. A look that said a million disparaging things about me in one quick second. I hated that look. And it wasn’t fair because I had no way to respond to it. I couldn’t give Robert a look that would tell him my side of the story and how unfair to me it was. Rhonda sighed and told me not to worry. She and Robert would drop me off at the party. I’d just have to find my own ride home. Robert started the engine and took off up the hill, leaving a trail of white smoke behind us.
I sat there evaluating Rhonda’s plan. I didn’t like it. I didn’t feel confident walking into a Mira Vista Park party by myself. I would look awkward and desperate. I pleaded with them to go to the party just for a little while, but it was no use and Rhonda became annoyed. They were doing me a favor by even driving me there. I felt guilty, like I was acting like an ungrateful child. Then I thought about how Rhonda had used me. How she had told her parents she was going out with me, when she knew all along she was going to be with Robert. I wondered why she didn’t tell me the plan. I wondered what happened to our friendship, to the girls who used to swap Barbie clothes, who laughed and ran down the street after throwing onions in the mailbox, who sang and did dance routines to the songs in “Bye, Bye Birdie.” I wondered what had happened to that Rhonda?
We rode to the party in awkward silence. Rhonda and Robert huddled together breathing in unison while I hugged the door and tried to figure out how to get the courage to walk into the party by myself. The wind felt good on my face but I leaned away from the open window. My hair had been wrapped in pink sponge rollers for half the day and I’d forgotten my comb. At that moment, I thought the wind was my biggest problem.
I fell in love with Marty Koutz a year before I ever saw him.
My senior year at Presentation High, I always heard girls in my class talking about the guys who hung around at Mira Vista Park in Richmond. They were all ‘foxes’ and had tattooed the park’s initials, MVP, on their arms. They sounded exciting and so very cool. They were bad boys. And all the girls wanted them.
The guy they talked about the most was Marty Koutz. They talked about how good-looking he was, so tall, so sexy. It wasn’t even the things the girls said that interested me in Marty, it was the enthusiasm with which they said it - the tone of their voice, those pregnant pauses after they’d say his name. He was the most desirable guy on the planet. He was bigger than life. I wanted him too.
I started going by Mira Vista Park right after my high school graduation. During those warm lazy days, Marty and the other guys would always be sitting on the lawn, lounging in the summer sun, listening to music or talking. Occasionally everyone would look up to watch a car drive by. There was a sense of ownership of the street that ran in front of the park. It was their street. And if you drove by you were subject to the scrutiny of the Park members, judged and categorized as friend or enemy, local resident, curiosity seeker, wannabe, or possible NARC.
The park itself was a deceptively small-looking expanse of green lawn, right in the middle of a residential area, which stretched back into wild dense woods with a creek running through it. This was where the unobservable took place, where everyone, one at a time - so as not to attract attention, would casually rise and wander back to when someone had scored some pot or alcohol, or to hide from the cops who came by every evening at sunset to kick them out.
After sundown, there was always a party. Word would spread and carloads of rowdy teens would descend onto the party scene, whooping it up and yelling, “Let’s get naked.” The guys were always yelling, “Let’s get naked!” It was their mantra, their war cry and their hope that one day some free spirited or overly intoxicated girl would comply.
Alcohol was a necessity at Park parties and it was easy for us to get. All you had to do was drive up to Heights Liquors on the hill, pick out your beverage and pay. No I.D., no questions. The standard taste in alcohol ran from cheap to cheaper. The objective was quantity, not quality. Most of us girls preferred the sweeter wines; Fruity-flavored Ripple or Muscatel. Others preferred beer, and of course there was always plenty of Red Mountain. Red Mountain was the cheapest wine you could buy in the biggest, screw-top, gallon bottle. Actually nowhere on the bottle were even printed the words ‘wine.’ But none of us had a palate educated enough to notice the difference. It was close enough and we drank it. Red Mountain was sour and nasty tasting and even nastier vomited out, which was pretty likely to happen if you consumed more than a few glasses. Red Mountain was a party staple. So was vomiting.
Rhonda called that afternoon. She had heard there was going to be a big Mira Vista Park party that night. She was sure her parents would let her go if she said she was going with me. I’d known Rhonda since I was twelve and she was my best friend. Her parents liked me. The fact that I’d attended Catholic school made them think I was safe. She said she’d come by to get me at seven. I hung up the phone and went to ask my mother if I could go. It was always easier to approach my mother with these things. If I’d ask my father, he’d just try to turn it into some kind of philosophical discussion about “Did I really need to go to a party?” and top that off with some vague and inappropriate metaphor about “Not going out in the rain without an umbrella.” And after all that, I’d still have to get approval from my mother anyway, so it just made sense to ask her first.
She was downstairs, sitting in her chair. My parents had matching leather recliners on opposite ends of a couch facing the TV. My father always sat fully reclined in his chair and usually fell asleep, but my mother never relaxed in hers. She sat erect, as if the chair was made of steel and had a straight uncomfortable back. She worried about posture a lot; hers, my sister’s, mine. And she reminded us all at least twenty times a day to sit up straight. It was this pressure that led to my recurring teenaged ‘posture’ nightmares, in which I suffered tragic consequences as a result of slouching.
I put my shoulders back, stood up straight, rehearsed my speech and approached her. I told her about the ‘birthday’ party I had been invited to. I figured it sounded more friendly and innocent with the word birthday tacked on. I was careful to mention Rhonda’s name several times and that her parents had approved. See, my parents knew that Rhonda’s parents were strict, so putting their name in the mix made getting permission easier. But this time, she decided to be difficult. She got into this whole conversation with my father about why someone would be having a party on a week night. My father responded with trite phrases that had nothing to do with the subject like, “Birds of a feather flock together” and “What goes around, comes around.” Neither of them understood the Mira Vista Park mentality: You partied whenever and wherever you could. No one had a job. What did we care if it was a week night or not? But I nodded my head and agreed a party on a weeknight was strange. They said I could go.
I spent the next few hours picking out my clothes. I knew Marty Koutz would be at the party so I wanted to look my best. I decided on a witchy-looking black satin blouse that I had made from the skirt of an old formal bought at a thrift store. It had long bell sleeves and a deep V-neck, which would’ve been sexy if at the time, I’d had any breasts to speak of. I decided to wear the new furry black coat my mother had bought me too. I knew it’d make her happy because I never liked anything she bought. But this coat, I liked the way I looked in it. As my mother passed my room, she reminded me that I’d look a whole lot better if I stood up straight.
While I waited for Rhonda to show up, I sat on my bed and fantasized about the party and twenty hopeful scenarios with me and Marty. In all of them, he was overcome by my beauty and how cool I was, and spent the evening by my side, laughing and talking with his friends, until he could no longer share me with others. Then he’d lead me off to some quiet spot where we could be alone. I saw it all so clearly in my mind that I was convinced this was how the evening would turn out. Tonight would be the night that would bring Marty and I together.
When Rhonda arrived, she was polite to my parents and told them we would be going to the party with our friend Dana, and that Dana’s mother, who was a nurse, was driving us there. My father said we should tell Dana’s mother “To drive like she owns the car, not the road.” Rhonda laughed like she really thought that was funny, while I rolled my eyes in embarrassment.
We left the house and Rhonda started walking in the opposite direction of the Park. I asked her where we were going and she snapped at me to just “Come on.” We walked up the street a few houses, and I noticed a beat up old gray Chevy parked at the top of the hill. In the driver’s seat was Robert, the guy Rhonda had been dating behind her parents’ back. Robert smiled and waved as Rhonda picked up her pace and headed toward the car. She hadn’t said anything about Robert going to the party with us. That bothered me because it changed the dynamic of our evening. Instead of two girlfriends hanging out together, flirting with guys, dancing, then checking in with each other from time to time to exchange gossip, it was going to be me and a couple. Rhonda was no fun when she was with Robert. They were madly in love and constantly clinging and groping each other. When I’d talk to her, they’d both stand there, arms around each other like Siamese twins and react to me as one. It wasn’t fun. But then I thought about my plan. I was going after Marty tonight anyway, so it really didn’t matter if Robert was there or not.
Rhonda jumped into Robert’s car and slid across the seat, into his mouth and down his throat. I got in, closed the door, locked it, rolled down the window, straightened my clothes so as not to wrinkle my satin blouse and waited five minutes for Rhonda and Robert to finish kissing. When they separated, Robert leaned forward to say hi to me. His mouth was smeared with Rhonda’s plum lip gloss, which made him look like some sort of crazed clown when he smiled. Rhonda was already reapplying a fresh layer of shine. She turned to me and said that she and Robert weren’t going to the party. I didn’t understand. When was this decision made? Was there some kind of silent message passed from mouth to mouth that was given, received, and agreed upon all in the course of a few slobbery minutes? I got upset and reminded her that she and I had talked about going to the party all day and that I had counted on it. She didn’t like the fact that I was making a fuss about it and she gave Robert a look. A look that said a million disparaging things about me in one quick second. I hated that look. And it wasn’t fair because I had no way to respond to it. I couldn’t give Robert a look that would tell him my side of the story and how unfair to me it was. Rhonda sighed and told me not to worry. She and Robert would drop me off at the party. I’d just have to find my own ride home. Robert started the engine and took off up the hill, leaving a trail of white smoke behind us.
I sat there evaluating Rhonda’s plan. I didn’t like it. I didn’t feel confident walking into a Mira Vista Park party by myself. I would look awkward and desperate. I pleaded with them to go to the party just for a little while, but it was no use and Rhonda became annoyed. They were doing me a favor by even driving me there. I felt guilty, like I was acting like an ungrateful child. Then I thought about how Rhonda had used me. How she had told her parents she was going out with me, when she knew all along she was going to be with Robert. I wondered why she didn’t tell me the plan. I wondered what happened to our friendship, to the girls who used to swap Barbie clothes, who laughed and ran down the street after throwing onions in the mailbox, who sang and did dance routines to the songs in “Bye, Bye Birdie.” I wondered what had happened to that Rhonda?
We rode to the party in awkward silence. Rhonda and Robert huddled together breathing in unison while I hugged the door and tried to figure out how to get the courage to walk into the party by myself. The wind felt good on my face but I leaned away from the open window. My hair had been wrapped in pink sponge rollers for half the day and I’d forgotten my comb. At that moment, I thought the wind was my biggest problem.
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