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Why a Woman Edged Away from Me on the Bus the Other Day
May. 8th, 2008 | 11:39 am
When I was six, and my sister was four, our family lived in a small rented house on the banks of Lake Ponchartrain in Slidell. It was a wild, remote, very beautiful place set in a broad cleared space surrounded by trees and brush. The blazing Louisiana sun made the leaves glitter and the long grass hot against our legs in the daytime. The nights were loud with frogs and insects and the long burp of gators. To step outside at dusk was to walk into a curtain of mosquitoes. I remember the interior of that little house as cool and dim and faintly rustic, with lots of dark wood and a stone floor in the living room. My sister and I shared a room at the back of the house, where, to save space, our twin beds had been pushed together. Mom and Dad’s room adjoined ours.
I liked our parents’ bedroom because it had what I called “secret passages.” It was so completely and totally lined with the dark wood paneling popular in the early ‘60s that it didn’t have proper doors. Both the door to the hall and the door to the master bathroom were little more than man-sized vertical flaps cut into the room’s paneling, with little knobs added on as an afterthought and “locks” that were nothing more than hook and eye arrangements. Once the doors were closed – and they both swung closed completely unless propped open -- they were pretty much invisible to anyone in the room who didn’t know exactly where they were.
One night our parents, who were still in their twenties, had a party. An advantage to being that age and renting a house out in the middle of a Louisiana swamp is that you can throw loud parties without the neighbors complaining. My sister and I were always entertained by our parents’ parties. Even after we’d been sent to bed, we could usually hear and enjoy what was going on.
That night, Crosby had come over. I think every family has a Crosby, the naughty bachelor friend who tells good stories and brings a different girl with him on every visit. Late into the evening, a bit after the music and laughter had peaked but while the liquor was still flowing, Crosby needed to go to the bathroom. There was already a long queue to the little hall toilet, so he decided to use the one that adjoined our parents’ room.
From our bedroom my sister and I heard him announce this intention. We heard several tipsy, ribald “good lucks” to him from the people in the queue to the other bathroom. We heard the “door” to our parents’ room open, then shut behind him. We heard a metallic rattle as Crosby fumbled with the little hook and eye on that first door and managed to latch it.
We listened with great interest.
( Read more )
I liked our parents’ bedroom because it had what I called “secret passages.” It was so completely and totally lined with the dark wood paneling popular in the early ‘60s that it didn’t have proper doors. Both the door to the hall and the door to the master bathroom were little more than man-sized vertical flaps cut into the room’s paneling, with little knobs added on as an afterthought and “locks” that were nothing more than hook and eye arrangements. Once the doors were closed – and they both swung closed completely unless propped open -- they were pretty much invisible to anyone in the room who didn’t know exactly where they were.
One night our parents, who were still in their twenties, had a party. An advantage to being that age and renting a house out in the middle of a Louisiana swamp is that you can throw loud parties without the neighbors complaining. My sister and I were always entertained by our parents’ parties. Even after we’d been sent to bed, we could usually hear and enjoy what was going on.
That night, Crosby had come over. I think every family has a Crosby, the naughty bachelor friend who tells good stories and brings a different girl with him on every visit. Late into the evening, a bit after the music and laughter had peaked but while the liquor was still flowing, Crosby needed to go to the bathroom. There was already a long queue to the little hall toilet, so he decided to use the one that adjoined our parents’ room.
From our bedroom my sister and I heard him announce this intention. We heard several tipsy, ribald “good lucks” to him from the people in the queue to the other bathroom. We heard the “door” to our parents’ room open, then shut behind him. We heard a metallic rattle as Crosby fumbled with the little hook and eye on that first door and managed to latch it.
We listened with great interest.
( Read more )