Crystal Clear Slices of Memory

I expect that we all have them. Those moments that are inscribed in our memories. For me, it is not like an out-of-body experience. It is me, with my point of view, but what I see and what I hear are like it just happened 5 minutes ago, not 25 years ago.

There was this party. I was in my second summer after having finished undergrad. It was to be a joint venture - my friends and my brother's - his mostly from college where he was to be a Junior the following autumn, mine from college, some from my current job, some from high school, and most interestingly, some from the rescue squad I had joined during college.

How and why the joining came to be involves a story about going to a resort in Jamaica called Hedonism while I was a Sophomore, and spending enough time with a gorgeous red-Speedo- wearing firefighter from Hamilton, Ontario that I came home with cystitis and without much of a tan. But that's a whole other story. Anyway, that meeting inspired me to explore volunteering at the local rescue squad.

I took all of the required schooling while I was a Junior and became an EMT (Emergency Medical Technician). At the time, I was medical school-bound, so anything to give me an edge was of interest. Plus it was alternately terrifying and gratifying. An added unanticipated bonus was the number of men I met. Lots and lots of men. Pricks and marshmallows and everything along that continuum. Age range from late teens to fifties. Mechanics and medical students - it was fun. And this was a group that partied hard. I remember an earlier Halloween party where I woke up after having passed out and I had a hickey and teeth marks on one of my insteps. There were no dogs at the party and I am pretty sure they don't know how to suck skin to give it the marks I had on my foot. I still do not know which of the many cops or firemen was responsible. Anyway, my college friends and I had a Jim Jones (look it up) party (also known as grape-n-grain party when I was a Junior, and it was a hit. This was to be a repeat - but bigger and better.

My brother and I bought 10 cases of beer and 3 3-liter bottles of grain alcohol. We were expecting about 60 people and weren't sure that we were going to have enough alcohol. Our parents were away on vacation and were aware that we were having this party.

I had plastic pink flamingos - why - I do not know, but I just had to have a flock of 4 in the front yard of my parents' 2-storey colonial on a cul-de-sac in a Philadelphia suburb. Even after I put kid-sized sunglasses on one of the birds, my brother and I thought that the yard "needed" something.

The Jim Jones event had taken place in Guyana - so of course we needed a map of South America, with Guyana marked prominently. So in I go to get the atlas volume from the Encyclopedia Britannica (yes, you youngsters, a big reference book). I held the book open to a map of South America, and started dragging my sneaker-clad heel across the front lawn. My brother followed with a can of white spray paint. painting the line I was tracing with my foot, until we had the full outline - which had to have been about 10'x25'. He filled in the spot where Guyana would be. Crystal clear slice of memory: It came to me in a rush - standing on the front lawn, the smell of grass and spray paint wafting in the July evening - after having finished this art installation - that the map was going to be on the front lawn until the grass had grown long enough for all of the paint to be mown away. Dad probably was not going to like that very much.

Most of the party is a blur - and not because I had consumed to much of the grape Koolaid punch served from a washtub (just like on the cover of Time Magazine depicting the aftermath of the mass suicide). I don't usually drink much when I am hosting - especially since my brother's fraternity brothers were almost all under age and I didn't want anyone driving. Music was great - this was mid 80's - and my college friend and I had put together a rocking sound track. It wasn't too hot, people were mingling, no one appeared to be too trashed, nothing was broken. I chased some of my brother's friends out of the house when they were smoking cigars, but that was it in terms of course correction. No misbehavior. I was feeling good. Not the least of which was due to one particular attendee.

A paramedic from the rescue squad. One who had been a member for at least a couple of years. Was well-respected. Who was also a cop. And whose intense eyes and serious demeanor was mixed with a lightening-fast, wicked and sharp sense of humor. My heart rate increased every time I saw his car in the squad's parking lot. I have never been a flirt. I just don't know how to do it. And I really didn't know what to say to him. I didn't know what kind of music he liked, if he played sports, climbed rocks, read comic books, had a girl friend. What I was certain of was that I wanted to taste him. In particular, his lower lip. And that I wanted to have a reason to try and get my fingers through what looked to be thick dark hair while those lips were busy with me. With pretty much any part of me. He had a recurring role as the star of my vividly detailed fantasy life. But he hardly acknowleged me. And it was hard to feel attractive wearing the really manly uniform and the big clunky safety boots. He had an air of experience and worldly street-smarts. He seemed distant - maybe just my hyper-awareness of him gave me that felling of slight standoffishness. He was unatainable. Out of my league yet undeniably magnetic. Clearly intelligent and reasonably well-educated. Observant. Aware. Strong. Straight back. Walked with confidence. People noticed when he entered the room - at least I think it was people and not just me. Me and my adrenal glands. And other parts.

Back to the party. I am not sure what I had in mind in terms of my choice of outfit. Think Jane from Tarzan but instead of an animal skin, a tropical print. Wrapped creatively, over one shoulder, slit skirt and held together with 2 safety pins. No bra. Red Calvin Klein panties. Which were apparently occasionally visible since Mr. Paramedic made a comment about them. By all accounts a successful party.

At around 10:30 or so, there was a fire call - meaning that on the local county radio system, a fire in the local municipality served by the rescue squad and the fire company had been reported. That meant that a number of the people at the party left. No big deal. Totally understandable. Priorities were unquestionably straight. That meant Mr. Paramedic left as well. But again, having been around fire, accident and injury "calls," I wasn't fussed.

Here comes the crystal clear slice of memory. The next day, late Sunday morning, the phone rings. I am in the kitchen. The ceiling fan is making an attempt to push the beer smell out of the room. As I walk to answer the phone, I can see into the dining room where there are still 3 sleeping fraternity brothers. I pick up the phone on the wall (back when there were corded, wall-mounted telecommunications devices. This one was beige.). It is Mr. Paramedic. Wait. What? It takes a few long seconds for the "who" to register. I can feel my pulse pounding in the ear I am holding to the receiver. He's calling to apologize for having to leave for the fire and then not coming back because it was so late by the time everything wrapped up. I was stunned. Breathless. His mother (gender stereotyping, I know) raised him right. He took the time and effort to find my phone number, and then called to say that he had a good time and was sorry he couldn't come back. I told him it was OK, that of course I understood, and that I was glad he had had a good time. I thanked him for taking the time to call.

Was that a glimmer of hope that the interest was mutual? Or was he just being polite? If it was the former, what would happen next? And how could I make it happen faster? If it was the latter, it just added to the list of reasons I was becoming smitten with this man.

What is interesting to me is that although this is a crystal clear slice of memory for me, if I were to ask him about it today, I doubt he could recall having done it at all.

I have a few other crystal clear slices involving this man. A couple of them are quite juicy. One involves me, a little black dress, a party with a house full of people, and being taken by surprise, slammed up against a door with the force of his mouth, his hips, his chest. Which was hands down one of the most exciting encounters of my life. But those will need to wait for another time.