Boneyard Deux.
So, ok. I guess you could say I have some kind of history of fucking in graveyards. I mean, I already posted one story about it and all. But, you know, it was never a pathology for me or anything. It just happened. More than once maybe, but it wasn’t like a sport for me especially.
Her name was Tracy. She was an Indian girl who was stuck in the same residential treatment facility as me back in ’91 or so. It was an ok place, the best stop on the circuit actually between about five joints they shuffled incorrigible medicated youth through back then in the Puget sound. It was the regular thing, you’d go from one place to another more long term, and then to another and then you’d escape and start it all over again.
They knew this. It was set up that way. They’d give you enough freedom until you just bailed and made room for someone else and then you’d be coralled six months or so later and sent back to the starting joint. It was actually a whole subculture-the kids making the rounds of the adolescent psych facilities. We all pretty much knew each other, and we were all mostly just street kids playing the system. It was a good way to get out of doing juvie time, you fuck up and get caught they just send you back to Fairfax or wherever instead of King County Juvenile Detention.
At any rate, I’m at this one place which shall remain nameless but it was on Queeen Anne hill in Seattle. And They’re letting me go out to Narcotics Anonymous meetings downtown. I get bus fare, and they just let me go. It was cool, I mean I met some nice people at the meetings and all. There was this one guy who was in some lesser but still known local bands and my overseers even let me out to go to their practices.
Well this Tracy girl, she also got to go to meetings. And of course we got to go together. She was fairly beautiful, a Blackfoot Indian who I just kind of figured was way out of my crusty punk league. Plus, you know, she had a history as the girlfriend of this certain notorious whackaloon kid who had escaped from fucking everywhere and was sort of a local legend. So I just figured, you know, there wasn’t no way I was cool enough to ever interest her.
I was wrong. After all, we were both seventeen years old and when the chips were down were all about the sex, drugs and rock n roll.
Of course, wasn’t no drugs generally available at the friendly local Narcotics Anonymous meetings. And it wasn’t like we got out to go see shows at the Central or wherever since we had to report back by a certain time.
So, you know, you just make do with the only remaining option.
And that we did. Every night they let us out, on the way back from the meeting. There was a certain window of time between when the bus dropped us off and when we actually had to be back. And being seventeen with nowhere better to fuck we usually hit the graveyard.
It was somewhere up there on Queen Anne hill. Not a big graveyard, but it was old and creepy as fuck. Of course my mind was generally on the task at hand, however…I mean the place was really fucking old. We were balling on 100+ year old graves. Totally spooky, and at night to boot.
Well, this went on for some time. I dug Tracy enough, but it was pretty obvious she just needed me to help her get her shit off. I never thought much of it. I figured she was way more sophisticated and jaded by life than me and I was perfectly fine just being a body for her to be with. I mean, look, I’m a teenage male-it aint like I’m gonna get all emo over a fuck buddy situation. I was just too stoked to be getting laid at all to be tripping on her being sort of detached about it.
But, of course, all good things must come to an end. We got too happy with it. She started sneaking into my room back at the facility and we got caught mid coitus one night. Kind of embarrassing you know? It’s difficult to explain that she was just borrowing your A.M.Q.A. cassette when you’re both naked as jaybirds and your dick is saluting like an Eagle Scout at an open minded stewardesses convention.
So that, as they say, was the end of that. No more going to meetings together. No more humping in the graveyard. Harsh of the ness.
Not too much longer later I departed from the place. Threw the beater acoustic guitar I’d traded to some kid for a leather jacket over the fence and followed it. Had many additional adventures I won’t go into, though some are documented in my books and elsewhere on this blog.
Didn’t hear whatever happened to Tracy until years later.
I was like 20 years old by then, living in an apartment in Tacoma and was hanging out with my friend Joel-who was another veteran of the psych circuit. Somehow he knew somebody else who knew Tracy and it turned out she had asked about me. Eventually it wound up that her and I met, somewhere out in Redmond or wherever at some coffee place. She had a kid. It wasn’t mine, of course. She told me what she’d been up to and how she’d thought of me all these years. She talked about her job and how she was single now. I remember she had like a really nice car and stuff and seemed to be doing pretty well.
I don’t know, I was just kind of weirded out. I told her I’d call her but never did.
Sometimes you miss the opportunity to tell someone they mean something to you and you just miss it for good. She missed it back when we were in the graveyard all those times.
But that’s the way life goes.
Blackfoot Indian chicks that bone in graveyards are the bomb, dude. And you never called her again? I swear, David, sometimes I don’t understand what goes on in your head. You’re complex.