Aquarius 21° (February 10) 125
Okay so when I was a junior in high school the open faced Jeep I was riding to school in was hit by a school bus. The road leading up to our school at the late time of the morning we were arriving had full busses, also late, tricking in and empty ones shooting out. We were stopped at the little road that opened onto this bigger road and the last thing I remember is my neighbor Jeff, who was a senior and brother of my friend, Karen, said “I think we can make it.” And then the next thing I knew was only two things. The smell of bananas and Bruce Springsteen. I had amnesia. Karen had been eating a banana and Bruce was on the radio. My head was bleeding profusely. What happened was that we got hit by an empty school bus and we flipped, rolled, over. I was the eighties so I didn’t have on a seat belt. So when we flipped upside down, imagine, I’m upside down, but I hit my head against the “roll bar” on the jeep which bounced me back into the car, against gravity as we continued the 360-degree roll that landed us back upright. I would have been crushed probably if I hadn’t bounced off the bar on my head and face, huge gash, many stitches in my head.
Thinking about what an operator he was, I now realize my father would have done something tricky. I remember my parents suddenly becoming friends with Karen and Jeff’s parents—and they weren’t chummy with anyone that lived in our still fairly waspy suburb of Wyckoff. I know now those things must be related. Something to do with insurance money I’m sure. My father was a district manager for Metropolitan Life and he was a tricky Gemini so something would have come of it. Karen was among my besties for sure. She was in love with this guy for whom I too had bromantic feelings. We were upwardly mobile, socially, together, and went from drama school nerds to pretty popular in a rather short stretch together. We were self-taught sophisticates and the object of our affection was French, a super soccer athlete who played varsity freishman year and went to college on a soccer scholarship. He was also something of a sophisticate. We went to see Bent on Broadway. We did mescaline. We spoked pot together daily. His the father was the chef at Le Cirque. He had a brother, three years older, and all their combined friends were like male models, many of whom went to Deerfield and other “academies” and whose girlfriends likewise attended private school.
Only later, when I moved to Paris, and was invited into BCBG enclaves did I get a taste of this kind of world. I didn’t know at the time that his whole vibe was just really French. Funny that as I write this the band Soccer Mommy just came on doing their song “Cool”. What can we make of life’s little synchronicities, right?
Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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