Long story short: You moved in together.
You said it was saving money – She said it was roommates.
Deep-down; you liked the idea of living together. You weren’t seeing anybody else – you had the love thing down to a science. You were both pretty level-headed.
Nobody got married anymore – besides, Alex was eighteen – you were eighteen. Too young to go the “mister ‘n missus route”. You liked the idea of two toothbrushes and having sex any time of the day or night. Made life a whole lot easier – you could lean on each other. Above everything else, sharing secrets was fun.
If it got drastic and the draft board came calling, you could go all official and Alex would change her last name, at least on paper. Otherwise, you were “the old man” and Alex was “the old lady” and that’s how your friends knew you.
Except for one thing – neither of your parents knew your arrangement – they were old school – they didn’t believe in living together. Her parents were convinced you’d be going to hell – your parents were worried you’d knock Alex up.
So when her parents came to visit you would disappear and call every three hours until it was safe. Your parents would come to visit and she would disappear with girlfriends and go shopping.
Her mom was suspicious – she would peer around the apartment like Elliot Ness looking for murder weapons.
Once you almost got busted when her mom found a pair of your shorts stuffed in the sofa. She asked Alex when did she start wearing Fruit Of The Loom?
Thinking fast, she blamed one of the neighbors who left them in the dryer and they wound up with her clothes. She was meaning to put them back in the laundry room; honest.
Eventually the art of deception was wearing thin. Alex was high strung anyway, and adding hidden fugitives to the mix was too much for her nervous system.
So she called – made a confession – spent the next hour hearing uncontrollable weeping over the phone and finally agreed you should all meet over lunch.
You toyed with the idea of having all the parents meet up at once. You were afraid fist-fights would break out, or at least, food being tossed. Better to deal with one 3-act drama at a time.
Since both of you together could afford a Medium Cheese Pizza, the parental Mastercharge account would be put to use and something more sit-down and less frantic would be the way to go.
You were forewarned not to bring up Vietnam or Politics – baseball was safe and The Yankees were safer. Try not to swear – don’t order anything past coca-cola and don’t hug dad. Mom was addicted to Dexamyl and probably won’t eat anything the whole time. Ignore her if she gets loud and makes proclamations. Nod a lot.
Lunch was awkward. Alex’s mom thought you were wonderful and laughed at everything loudly. Alex’s dad thought you were something that should be sprayed with disinfectant.
Between the two of them you were convinced Alex was adopted.
In the end it wasn’t the dental appointment you were afraid it would be. Nobody died, nobody shot anybody, and nobody accused anybody of anything. Cautiously civil. Kind of like the Paris Peace Talks where everyone shakes hands and speaks in other languages nobody understands. You smile anyway. The bombing continues.
Back at the apartment – safely removed from parental scrutiny and quietly basking in bed after an hour’s worth of re-arranging the sheets, you both gaze up at the late afternoon sun crawling across the ceiling while the stereo is on. You sigh in unison.
This adult thing has big possibilities.
And while you’re taking a victory lap, here’s an hour’s worth of Brother John at KABC-FM (soon to be KLOS) from August 1, 1969.
