I’m probably not too old for this job, but, damn, I am old. What haven’t I figured out, children?
We have Emily, tapping her toe and counting down three weeks to escaping to Hiram. Living on “the wrong side of the tracks,” far from Hudson, has benefits. These girls met the bus at 6:15 every morning and got off at four every afternoon. Their lives were homework, supper, bed. Emily’s social life was band, and her eventual boyfriend was a band member.
There were school dances, and the occasional movie, but even more, complaints they never did ‘boyfriend, girlfriend things.’ This, as we all know, got little sympathy from me. Emily’s boyfriend worked, as did Emily. I found it ideal, and saw no reason to facilitate more “dates” than I did.
This final summer of freedom, however, is exactly that: more freedom than they knew. Emily has been allowed in Scott’s car since last September. Dates are fine; there is no personal running around. They both work at the same place, but I will not let him bring her home, except from a Friday night date, which must end by ten.
Last week Emily and I were coordinating calendars. “You do know Scott is taking me to a concert Tuesday night?” No, I didn’t, but no matter.
“Where is it?”
Blossom Music Center is a huge outdoor music stage, less than ten miles away. Two roads south of here. Nice facility. I’ve seen Peter, Paul and Mary there, and Paul Simon, and the Cleveland Orchestra. She and Scott and his sister and her boyfriend, and probably a bunch more are seeing Blink 182. (?)
“And we were thinking, since it will be so late, and so far, we’ll just go to Scott’s sister’s apartment and spend the night.”
“Thought I’d miss that, did you?”
“It was worth a try.”
“No, Scott can drop you on his way home, say midnight, latest.”
There is nothing new under the sun.