One of the sensations that I can
conjure if I concentrate, with which I also become reacquainted a few
times a year or so, is the vaguely electric warm potential of summer
nights in the still streets of my hometown. It is a crystal clear
remnant of years of repeated circumstance piled into my memory, not
connected with any particular scent or event or person (I find that
many of my memories are attached in this way). The feeling of being
out and about, actively bored, tracing familiar paths walked hundreds
of times through silent block after silent block, is an unbroken
thread that winds itself through the tapestry of my adolescence,
connecting familiar faces and phases and tracing the
terrifying transitions that came with growing up.
At 14 and 15, we
darted through yards and shadowed parks playing man hunt, a game
where most of the allotted playing time was spent walking alone
through the night searching for movement in your peripheral vision.
When the enemy was spotted, a chase might unfold through the
neighborhood the raw exhilaration of which wouldn't be matched for
months of high school. My first kiss took place after a long walk
around town late at night, stretching my curfew, finding shadows to
wrap ourselves in between the pale orange beams of streetlamps. If
nothing else, my friends and I would wait until after midnight and
stream out of basements or off of porches into the night just to buy
half gallons of cheap iced tea and walk the railroad tracks that cut
through town until we got too sleepy to balance.
In my adult life I
remain assured and am regularly reminded that I will always be in
love with the sound of that train's distant dependable whistle
cutting through the thick warm air of small town nights in the
summer. It seemed during the slow procession of my childhood and
adolescence that a short time into summer vacation, a night would
come when I would find myself lying awake in bed listening to the
train fly by, and mentally mark the close of another year added to my
body and mind. The train's rumbling progress brought with it cascades
of emotion, long imagined adventures with juvenile crushes, sorrow
and confusion over expiring friendships, fear and excitement of
witnessing my own body and identity fluctuate and develop. As the
bizarre whispering tendrils of sleep crept into my sensory landscape,
I would float out into the still orange night and do battle with the
monsters of youth.
The hurdles of small town boredom,
ever increasing in height as we grew up, led us not only into the
tumbling, socially charged catharsis of drugs & alcohol in
parents' basements but also out and up, in the middle of the night,
onto the roofs of school buildings, where I found my first personal
niche. After midnight, we circled the high
school, spotting possible weaknesses that would allow us to explore
new sections of the huge expanse of roof under which we spent
overstimulated, half-awake hours during the mornings and afternoons.
We chose school buildings for their general sturdiness and strange,
blocky geometries that allowed us to wander the roofs without worrying
about being seen from the ground. I was most often the first to scout
a new way up, the most daring climber, and the quickest with
encouragement when one of my friends got spooked or claimed to be too
tired to take a lap around the roof at 2am on a Friday night. When
the corners, gaps and shadows of the high school roof had been
exposed to us, and we had ridden the waves of adrenaline that carried
us through those first expeditions into the unknown, we spread out
onto other roofs around town because it just seemed like the natural
thing to do - we cherished those close calls with janitors, the
slinking through darkness to seize our chance to climb, but above
all, the heart-pounding pleasure in getting away with something so
innocuous but delightfully against the rules. Thus was my appetite
for adventure forged in the tepid coals of small town adolescence - excitement had to be cultivated, not encountered, so the burden of finding an outlet
for our pent-up angst and energy resided entirely in our
imaginations.
On visits to my home town nowadays,
I'll often pick a night to stay up a bit later, until the traffic of
errand-runners disperses, leaving silent streets in a near-vacuum
waiting to be filled by the rusty echoing howl of the train's
whistle. I amble over the cool floors of the house I grew up in,
grasping onto the excitement for the known-but-unknown that I grew up
with, reduced now to a faint unsettling deja vu that my mind
manipulates and rearranges the older I get. My hand turns the lock
and slides the chain in its housing, a ritual made reflexive by
hundreds of nights of quiet practice. I step out, or rather my trusty
legs carry me, every step and movement printed in muscle memory, the
cracks in the sidewalk looking just right, the night enfolding me
reliably. I am far removed in time, and I walk in the middle of the
empty road, and the tangerine street lamps evince silhouettes of past
lives, when it seemed like everyone I loved was within arms' reach
and we had perpetual plans to meet at midnight just to be near each
other. On a night like this I will walk and think and feel until my
soul is reacquainted, however briefly, with the billowing sense of
possibility that caused the summer nights of my boyhood to nearly
vibrate, and I will breathe in the still blackness, retracing
my younger self's steps I'm sure, remembering pieces of me and wondering how they
fit together.