The First of the Firsts

Usually monumental changes don't come announced. Often they aren't realized until they've passed and a person has had enough time and distance to look back and say, "That day. Oh, yes. That was the day I learned the value of such-and-such."

But when I was seventeen years old I had a moment that didn't want to be one of those quiet, subversive moments. It wanted to make itself known. It was the first time I ever looked at a boy and he looked at me and in that second I knew that if he leaned in and kissed me, if he took me up in his arms and said Come with me, I would have gone, and I would have slept with him.

It was a startling feeling. I'd thought about sex before, of course. When I was sixteen I had my first big love, and there was a day when I thought it might happen. There was a window of opportunity. The boy had a few hours where he could slip away before he had to be to work, and he called to ask if I was interested.

"Do you want me to come over?" he asked. I was sitting on my parents' bed. I had the phone cord wrapped around my ankle. When he asked me that question, I pulled that cord tight. It was so tight I thought it might break and his question would go spinning off into obscurity, like it'd never come through the wire. He might think we got cut off before I heard the question. I almost wanted him to think that. I wanted to get cut off and I wanted him to go to work, to not call back. That was easier than answering the question. The answer, of course, was complicated and murky. The answer was yes, I wanted him to come over. The answer was also no, no, no I did not want him to come over.

I'd thought and talked about a lot of hypothetical sex, but in that second I had to open my mouth and offer a real-life answer to a real-life question. I tried to think about what would happen if I said yes. He would come over. I would make him park his car in the garage so my grandparents wouldn't drive by, worry, stop in, or--worse--make a call to my parents. And then what? Where would we go? My room? My parents' room? How would it start? I imagined fumblings, some breathy kisses. But what was I supposed to do with my socks? Nothing I'd ever seen on TV or in the movies explained what to do with socks. I couldn't think of a graceful way to get rid of them, but I couldn't imagine standing there completely naked with a boy for the first time, save for a pair of white ankle socks.

And what's a girl supposed to do with those questions? I told this boy no, I didn't want him to come over. I told him to go to work. I told him the timing wasn't right and there would be too much stress. It never occurred to me that he wouldn't be around in a few months, that I wouldn't get a second chance. But he wasn't around, and I didn't get my second chance. And I found it hard to get out of bed and go on with my life after he was gone from it.

But I had to get out of bed. I had to go to work at my very first job. I was waitressing at one of the several cozy country cafes my hometown boasted. This place had a driving range, a putt-putt, and it hosted a yearly tractor pull in its backyard. The interior was decorated entirely with strawberries. Strawberry wallpaper. Strawberry paintings. Strawberry-shaped napkin holders. Strawberry flour canisters. Strawberry knickknacks. On Sunday mornings the kitchen staff loaded one whole side of a warmer with corned beef hash. The pies were homemade. I had to buss my own tables and make sundaes and milkshakes, and it seemed that the only time all these things needed doing at once was when it was impossibly busy. There were only ever two waitresses on a dinner shift, so sometimes things got so hard I wanted to take a few minutes to go have a cry in the bathroom.

But I loved working there, and I loved waitressing. I especially loved my Sunday shifts, when I started at one and worked until close. Sundays were usually long, leisurely days with less tip potential but a lot of regular customers. Sundays were also the days I worked with my favorite waitress--a thirtysomething with long blond hair. She was the type who'd been around the block more than once, who smoked, who said wise things when we sat sharing a slice of caramel-apple pie. She thought I was cute. I thought she was funny.

I also loved the Sunday-shift cooks, girls my age who attended the school district that was next to mine. They had short boy haircuts and they swore a lot. They knew the boy I had loved--the boy I'd turned down--and they said mean things about him, which pleased me to no end. I wanted to hate him, and they were helping me do it. At night, after we flipped the sign to CLOSED, we would switch off the country radio station and slide in a CD we could dance and sing to. I ran the vacuum, flipped the salad bar, wiped down the tables, and restocked the bathrooms while the girls scoured the grill and washed the floors. We all sang and sang and sang.

The Sunday-shift cooks were good for more than just singing, for more than making me a veal cutlet whenever I wanted one. They were also good because they were friends with two very beautiful boys. These boys were older boys, and they were very tall. They ducked whenever they entered the restaurant or whenever they shuffled between the smoking and non-smoking sections.

It was a snowy Sunday the first time I ever saw them. They rode up to the restaurant on their snowmobiles, which they parked in the parking lot like they were Buicks instead of Ski-Doos. The cooks, who had squealed and crowded around the window to watch the arrival after they heard the first rev of the motors coming our way, patted at their hair and wiped the crumbs from their jeans. And then the side door swung open and in walked the boys, looking like they'd just stepped out of a glossy outdoor living magazine, like they'd taken a break from shooting a spread about winter recreation. One was blond, one was dark-haired. The dark-haired one was taller and skinnier, and I loved him from the first second he turned his eyes on me. His name was Mike, and he stood there looking at me with his pink-cheeks and his toothy grin. The cooks introduced us, but then I quickly went on my way. I didn't want to step on any toes, after all. It was extremely clear that the girls liked Mike and his friend, and who was I to sit down at the counter with them and try to flash a smile or bat my eyelashes to get a little attention?

But then their Sunday visits started to become a habit, and if ever there was a Sunday when they didn't come by on their snowmobiles to drink hot chocolate and order hamburgers--medium-well, no onion, American cheese--I would sulk as I flipped over the CLOSED sign. I started spending my Sundays turning an ear toward the doors, hoping to hear the far-off rumble of two sleds flying over the snowy driving range.

Mike and his friend showed up one Sunday night shortly after we'd gotten slammed. There wasn't an empty table in the entire restaurant, and people were sitting at the counter waiting to be seated. The peppy thirtysomething and I were doing the best we could, but we were falling behind. We were dying. I was fantasizing about running into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, and sitting on top of the toilet to have my cry.

I didn't even have time to appreciate the boys' entrance, which was always spectacular: the tamping-off of snow, the harsh metallic hiss of unzipping, the tousling of the matted-down hair. Instead, I dashed from table to table, delivering meatloaf and ruebens and hot turkey sandwiches. The boys waited their turn at the counter, and when they finally got seated I ended up as their waitress. They sat at a two-top next to the swinging door that separated smoking from non-smoking. Mike wanted a burger. He also wanted a chocolate milkshake. I looked around the restaurant--at the other two tables that had just gotten seated, at the two that I hadn't yet been to--and I wanted to kill him. A chocolate milkshake? Now? Was he kidding me?

The ice cream was too hard. I had to put it in the microwave to even be able to work a scoop through it. I spilled milk. I spilled chocolate syrup. I worried I'd filled the metal canister too full and that it would explode everywhere. The peppy thirtysomething had already accidentally sent the coffee maker into a double-brew, which caused an entire pot's worth of decaf to cascade over the counter and onto the floor. There was a small non-caffeinated pond we tracked through for hours, until we were finally able to stop running and clean it.

But the milkshake maker whirred on normally, and I yanked the finished shake off the beater and ran it back to their table in record time. But I was disappointed and sad. I wasn't able to linger at their table like usual. I wasn't able to breeze by and wag the ties of my apron at them. I wasn't able to put my hand on Mike's shoulder and say, "How does it taste, Mike? Is it delicious?"

But even after I brought the boys their check, dumped it on their table, and ran off after the old lady who was complaining that there was no more ranch dressing on the salad bar, those boys stayed. They cleared their own dishes. They wadded up their napkins and placemats. They went behind the counter and filled a bucket with soapy water. They found two rags and a buss bin, and they started going around the restaurant, clearing dirty tables, washing them down, and setting them with silverware.

It was probably the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. I thought it was perfect. I thought it was love. I thought it was romantic.

I still do.

An hour and a half later the restaurant had calmed down. I had two tables left, and they were taking their time over cheesecake and coffee. The rest of the place was clean and orderly, thanks to the boys. They were now sitting at the counter with their own cups of coffee. I went and sat next to Mike. I put my head on his shoulder.

"It's okay," he said. "Everything worked out."

They stayed. They stayed and stayed and stayed. All the tables finally left, and we flipped the sign to CLOSED. I dragged out the vacuum cleaner and started working on my closing duties. The boys talked to the cooks and ate a couple baskets of french fries.

A few minutes later, one of the cooks asked me if I'd fill the giant yellow janitorial bucket with sanitizer and water for her so they could start scrubbing the grease off the floor. I said I would, so I swung my way through the non-smoking door and headed to the tiny space that was concealed behind the salad bar, in a tiny room that jutted off parallel to the bathrooms. When you were in that tiny room you were completely blocked off from the entire restaurant. You could hide there. You could cry there. You could take your first deep breath of the night there.

And I did. I wheeled the bucket over to the spout, poured the bleach powder into it, ran the hot water. As it filled, I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes. The next thing I knew Mike was putting his arms around me and picking me straight up off my feet. I hovered a few inches from the ground, suspended in his arms.

I thought, Oh my God. He's going to kiss me. He's going to kiss me.

I had never wanted something more, not even the last boy I loved.

The water was running. Steam was rising up from the stomach of the yellow bucket. The whole world smelled like deep fryer and bleach.

"Hi," Mike said.

"Hi," I said.

He put me down. He let me go. He took a step away from me, but only for a second, only long enough for him to snake his arm around the corner and grab a chunk of ice from the bottom of the salad bar. Then he came back to me. He backed me against the wall, which was tinny and hollow-sounding. He placed the ice on the tender spot where my jawbone joined my neck. It immediately started melting, and a thin river of water ran down my neck and under the collar of my shirt.

"Does that feel good?" he asked.

I couldn't breathe or talk, so I nodded.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

This time I managed speech. "Yes," I said.

The steam was all around us. The water was going to overflow, but I didn't care. I closed my eyes. I waited. He moved the ice downward, following the path that had first been cut by the melted water. When I opened my eyes and looked at him there was an entirely new feeling inside me. It was something definable and tangible. I swore I could reach into my stomach and pluck this feeling out as if it were solid. It was hot and heavy. It was part understanding and part wanting. I didn't care about socks or what I would do with them at that second. I didn't care about how clumsy things would be. I didn't care about anything except the way his body was pressing against mine and how it could go on like this forever and I would be happy.

If he asked me, I would go. If he kissed me, I would let him lift me up and take me out of that place.

But none of that happened. Instead, one of the cooks called for him, told him to hurry up and come help her, and he sighed a sigh that I could feel in my own chest. He let go of the ice and it slid along under my shirt, into my bra. I left it there to melt as I watched him smile apologetically and back out of the tiny room. I wanted to stand for a minute and think about what had just happened. I wanted to memorize that feeling in case I would never feel it again. I wanted to remember that moment just the way it was, because nothing would ever be the same ever again, and I knew it.

But I couldn't just stand. I had to save the bucket from overflowing. I had to push it out to the kitchen, where Mike would take it from me and start working on the coffee and chocolate stains that dotted the floor.

I have never felt anything as simple and authentic as that first moment where I understood what my body wanted, and I have never loved anyone the way I loved that boy that night. It was a pure love, one that never had the occasion to be messed up by real life. It was just a few seconds of recognition and wanting. It was the first time I ever said yes inside my head.

Nothing ever came of it. The boys still came by on most Sundays, but this was after I learned that one of the cooks was in love with Mike--and it was a hard, hard love, a love that I could identify with--and I knew that I could never again let him back me into a corner and put his hands on me as if they belonged there, no matter how much they did.

I met Keith not too long after that busy Sunday night, and I stopped working at the restaurant so I could go off to college. I haven't seen Mike in eight years, but every once in awhile I can reach back into my memory and bring up that night, and I can lean back and close my eyes and breathe in and feel the press of his body against mine. I live in there, right there in that tiny room, for just a second and then I can open my eyes and face the world again, knowing that there's so much more to come. So much more.