One buddy was a tall, shy young man named Dean. He came from a working-class Catholic family of nine brothers and sisters, many of whom worked alongside him at a Ford plant. Though he was sharply intelligent, college was never encouraged in his family.
So despite his desire to attend, he abided by his father’s wishes and followed in the family footsteps into the safety of the United Auto Workers.
I fell madly in love with him. I was drawn to his quiet demeanor, the way he’d sit cross-legged on the floor at our parties, leaning forward occasionally to utter nearly inaudible comments. He liked to read, do drugs and ride motorcycles, and he turned me on to Neil Young. Our relationship encompassed all the cliches of passionate nights and dazed happiness. I was sixteen; Dean, twenty.
But we needed to score some birth control for those passionate nights. This was the early eighties, when the worst fears surrounding sexual contact could be cured with a script for penicillin. How innocently lucky we were, the last children of a halcyon era. Dean offered to buy condoms, but I felt wary: My sister was the product of a broken condom. I wanted the utter security of the Pill.
Even given their liberal views, the idea of hitting up my parents for birth control alarmed me. But one of our closest family friends, David, was an ob/gyn and my regular physician, so skulking off to the clinic my peers ducked into seemed ridiculous. While I screwed up the guts to ask my mom to make an appointment with David, Dean and I planned a trip to northern Michigan, where his family had a cabin.
My mother, of course, was no fool.
‘So I guess you’ll be needing some birth control,’ she said as we drove home from the supermarket a few weeks before the trip. I thought I was going to fall out of the Buick onto Southfield Road. ‘Uh, yeah, I will.’ Off we went to David’s office, where he gave me six months of Ortho-Novum and the freedom to fuck unfettered.
Driving back, my mother told me never to have sex in cars, as Detroit at night is not only dangerous, but often chilly. ‘Go in your bedroom and put the stereo on for privacy,’ she suggested. ‘That way, I won’t have to worry about where you are. And you won’t catch cold.’
Dean and I were together for just under a year. Initially we were happy, but our differences surfaced quickly. His family was openly anti-Semitic and they made their dislike of me plain. I didn’t allow the rush of sex and late nights of coke-fueled talk to interrupt my studies. Dean, who did differential equations on grocery lists when bored, was openly jealous. I pushed him hard to borrow money and attend a local technical college. It was none of my business, and he told me so. In truth, the college argument was indicative of deeper, irreconcilable differences. Dean came from a family that attended church on Sundays, sought other churchgoing, blue-collar people to marry and continued the tradition of large families. What I naively saw as somebody longing for more, as my parents had years earlier, was simply a boy having his wild youth before settling down to a nice housewife who would dutifully produce babies and obey the man of the house.
And then there was the cocaine. Lots of it. More than I’d ever seen. One of his brothers was a dealer, so we paid little for pure eight balls-an eighth of an ounce-folded into intricate paper squares cut from Playboy. Dean and two of his brothers were addicted. Lines in the morning before work, lines in the bathroom, lines in the car off a hand mirror while driving. (I never understood the mechanics of that maneuver. And didn’t other drivers, specifically the police, ever notice?) While I liked cocaine, my gaze never wavered from my savior from poverty: a college education. The drug waited in my night-table drawer, tucked into my blue leather ‘concert kit’ until Friday night. ‘How can you have it in the house and not do it?’ Dean would ask. ‘When I have it, I do it until it’s gone.’
His friends were equally amazed. I remember hanging out at the house he shared with his brothers one Wednesday night. The usual crowd was drifting around, waiting for free lines. Coke dealers always have lots of friends. Dean’s brother Trey, the dealer, arranged four neat lines on the Miller High Life mirror and shoved them across the table to where I sprawled on the couch. ‘Hey everybody! Watch this! Watch her not do it!’ The four lines sat between us, untouched, until some impatient soul reached down with a rolled bill and got high on a school night.
Our relationship ended acrimoniously. For Christmas I bought Dean a watch he’d been eyeing for months. He promptly ‘lost’ it. Whether he truly did, sold it for drugs or broke it in anger after a fight with me I cannot say. He ruefully promised to replace it ‘as soon as he had the money.’ I watched him put four or five watches up his nose before realizing cocaine meant more to him than the thirty-seven dollars I’d painfully saved from my meager school job. We broke up in an ugly, sobbing scene on New Year’s Eve, and I have not seen him since.
The breakup devastated me. I missed him so much it felt physical. I imagined him finding a skinny, narrow-hipped Catholic girl-at size twelve, I was too voluptuous for his tastes-and marrying her. Having quiet, nearsighted babies and buying his starter home on Detroit ’s east side, far from the reviled Jews and Blacks. I still think about him and wonder if he’s tamped down our relationship into something meaningless, or if he looks at his wife in the night and wonders what he missed.
A few other people wandered in and out of my family’s lives, lan, Michael’s son, was an occasional visitor, always bringing drugs, a bag of new records and an enviably sexy girlfriend. He went in for tall, collected redheads or blondes who left me quailing, so positive in my stoned stupor that I would say something stupid, I’d lapse into paranoid silence.
There were others: William, who discussed the scientific versus the aesthetic structure of the world with me on a long walk one day when I was seven; a guy lan often crashed with named Blaster; and Cecilia, who’d been gang-raped at a party while tripping on LSD. Talented, bright, charismatic, they’d arrive unexpectedly from Lan-sing or Grand Rapids or Kalamazoo, illuminating the house for a few hours with laughter and talk, then disappearing just as quickly, returning in six days or four months or never again. These people were either incapable of or uninterested in ongoing friendships. It seemed to me that the more people ‘understood things,’ the less capable they were of functioning in the world, barely getting by on parental dole or dealing. William’s brilliance turned the corner to insanity; last I heard he lived in the streets. Blaster moved from place to place, dealing. Cecilia married a straight, dull fellow and had babies, lan did nothing, dropping out of college and living off Michael, collecting a string of pretty girls who eventually tired of his laziness and dumped him. My combination of good student, outstanding co-op worker of the year, and drug-user with my folks on weekends, while odd, wasn’t impossible. Why didn’t other people do it?
During my teens, I remember surveying our lives, relative to the world around us. The straight route led to financial freedom, affording me the creature comforts I wanted: books, records and nice clothing. The counterculture neglected the material things, shunning those values as ‘square,’ offering instead people who shared some of my core values about politics and drugs, people who didn’t freak out over my parents. A foot in both worlds struck me as practical and not a particularly difficult way to live. I often hid my glee in high school, the model student in the front row as the counselors raved at us about the dangers of drugs.