The Cherr-Delight Girl

He was the kind of guy to burn his draft card. He protested the war and wore heavy sideburns on either side of his angular face. He had dropped out of college a couple of years before to pursue work as an artist. Long story short, my dad did not like him.

My whole life, I lived down the street from him. His younger sister and I had gone to school together. He was at most of the birthday parties I went to, and all of the block parties that our parents threw. I never had romantic thoughts about him until he went away to school, and returned in the summer seeming infinitely older and cooler than all of us. He asked that we all call him John, and not Johnny.

My older sister, who had gone to school with him, said he was as pretentious as they came. He had been a nice boy turned into the dirtiest word of my suburban neighborhood: hippie. Aside from dropping the second syllable of his name, and wearing his hair longer, he didn’t seem much different to me. He hadn’t forgotten his manners. He still opened doors for the girls and spoke respectfully to adults.

But I thought he was wonderful. John listened to folk music and he played a guitar very well. When he sang, I believed every word he said.

That summer was the last of the sixties. I had just graduated from high school in May. I was set to go to Columbia in the fall, much to my parents’ chagrin. They didn’t want me to come home like John, my hair stringy and unwashed, telling anyone who could listen that men who went to Vietnam were baby killers.

Of course, he was much older and much more hip than me. I was his little sister’s friend, an eternal child. I had heard that his girlfriend was an actress in New York City. There was no way he would ever be interested in me, so I swallowed my crush and dove into helping plan the Fourth of July block party.

It was my job to keep the little kids entertained with soda and sprinklers and games. John had offered to take over entertainment, and brought his guitar. His mother told him to play the songs everyone knew, and not just the noise he liked. He tossed his head back and laughed at her.

He was wearing his bell bottoms. They were a light blue wash, and he wore sandals with them. He wore a red t shirt with it, his hair unstyled and so easily cool. It made me feel like a try hard, standing there in my red gingham shorts and white blouse. I had done my hair the way Jean Shrimpton was wearing hers, voluminous and middle parted.

Everything about this boy was effortless, and when he talked to me, I found myself laughing stupidly at whatever he said. His eyes were kind, crinkling at the ends when he grinned, and the kind of golden hazel that always made me think of autumn.

When all the dads had done the big firework display, and the little kids were rounded up and sent to bed, I was sitting on the edge of someone’s brick fence. I sighed, and crossed my ankles. I looked around. My mother was standing with the other women, smoking their cigarettes in the orange glow of the street light. The men were drinking their cans of beer, and we were going to begin winding down. A couple of the kids my age were going to a party outside of town. I was the only one left, not young enough to be sent to bed, and still not old enough to smoke cigarettes with the women. I wasn’t much of a partier, either. Too many kids got into trouble smoking marijuana at those parties, and it wasn’t like my dad would let me go to one, anyway.

I hadn’t seen John in a while. I guess I thought he had gone to the party.

But while I was busy watching the world, he walked up to me. “Do you want to go on a walk to the store with me?” He gestured to the group of men. “They’re almost out of beer.”

I looked up at him and smiled, then glanced at my mother. Although she disapproved of John, she knew I was over the moon for him. She caught my eye and winked.

I turned back and smiled. “Sure.” I stood, flipping my hair over my shoulder.

His hands were shoved into his pockets, and we went down the sidewalk. The convenience store was a few blocks up, but it was a pleasant walk.

“So Janie tells me you’re going to Columbia,” he said.

“Yes. I’m going to be a teacher.”

“What subject?” His eyes were straight ahead.

“Um, English,” I said. “That must seem silly to you.”

He grinned, white teeth shining in the dark gap between the street lamps. The houses seemed to watch us from their manicured lawns.

“You all think I hate everything,” he said. “I’m not like the Manson family. I don’t hate everything normal.”

“I said the wrong thing. I’m sorry.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

He stopped and turned to me. “Don’t apologize. I don’t expect you to say what I want you to say.”

I looked at my shoes, and then ahead. “My dad thinks you’re doing drugs.”

He laughed again and we walked under a streetlight. “Everyone I know does drugs.”

“I don’t,” I said, glancing at him from the side of my eye.

“I just wanna be free, you know? I mean, I don’t want you to think I’m a dope fiend, or that I live on LSD. I just wanna open my mind.” He took one of his hands out of his pockets and scratched at the back of his neck. “I just can’t accept that I could end up here, in a neighborhood in a house I hate with a mindless family.”

“I understand that,” I said. It was as if the young people of our generation were looking around, and we were seeing things we didn’t like. Our parents found their happiness in things. I knew it, too. Every time my parents had a fight, a big one, I would see my mother wearing a new watch or earrings or a necklace. There was always a new car or a kitchen gadget or something for them to chase after.

We turned down the end of the block as glittering fireworks shattered across the sky.

“You’re cooler than you think, Carol,” he said. “You’ll do great at Columbia.”

“What makes you say that?” My voice was laughing. John had just said I was cool. I was nervous.

“I mean, you don’t really do what everyone else does. You think for yourself. You’re laid back. Most chicks I know from here are like, fans of Pat Boone.”

We both laughed at that.

“You’re a riot,” I said, smiling. “Well, what are you going to do?”

He shrugged. “I want to be an artist. I want to create something people will remember.”

I shook my head. “Like Van Gogh, huh?”

He smiled again, that dazzling smile. “Not exactly. But sure.”

We walked up that block, talking about what he wanted to do and what I wanted to do. He was ambitious, wanting to create a painting that many people would see. I wanted to write stories that people identified with. We both wanted to create a work that meant something.

When we reached the convenience store, and its fluorescent light fell over us, John got the beer for the dads. He turned to me and said, “I’m getting a soda. Want one?”

“Sure.”

He put the beers on the counter and turned back to the long row of glass coolers before pulling out a gold bottle of cream soda.

I pulled out a cold cherry soda, and he paid the attendant before popping the top off his soda on the counter. He turned to me, and I held mine out. Carefully, he popped the top off mine, too, handing it back. When he did, my fingers touched his. They were warm against the chilled glass. I wondered what his hand would feel like over mine.

We wandered out, John with the beers in a paper sack in one hand. He took a long swig of his soda. I slowly brought mine to my lips, thinking it would absolutely be the most embarrassing thing ever if I spilled on myself like a kid.

“You always drink that,” he said after a minute.

I shrugged. “I like cherry.”

“You ought to be their model,” he said. “I see all those advertisements, and you’ve got it right there. Your shorts match your drink.”

“They do, don’t they?”

The smell of barbecue smoke wafted down the blocks as we walked. He asked me what music I liked, and movies and told me that he was going to stay with a friend in Vancouver. It seemed that was a hub for counterculture, and he was excited about it. He would be leaving on Monday.

We got back to the group of adults standing and sitting around. John delivered the beer and I took my seat back on the brick fence.

I took a drink of my cherry soda, watching the fireworks from down the street. A smile crossed my face, and I was enjoying these small things. The celebration of independence that we had every year seemed more magical, and I had the feeling that it might be the last I would enjoy as a girl.

Fireworks of every color popped above us, and suddenly, I saw John watching me from the corner of my eye. A lazy smile was spread across his face, and I turned, meeting his eyes, returning his smile beneath the scintillating sky. I felt, then, that he must have a crush on me, too.

The fireworks stopped, and it seemed right as they did, my dad walked up to me and said, “It’s late, honey. Mom and I are going home.” He glanced at John, who was still looking at me. His smile had shrunk but the corners of his mouth still hinted at jollity.

“Okay, Dad,” I said, and got up. I stepped over to John, murmuring, “Come see me when you get back from Vancouver, will you? I want to hear all about it.”

He nodded, grinning. “See you later, Carol.”

John left for Vancouver, and in the fall, I was at Columbia. I forgot all about it, but not him. When I went home for breaks, I asked his family about him. They never knew much, except that he was in California. After a while, I stopped asking.

I graduated in 1973, after changing my major to journalism. I got a job in New York working for a ladies magazine, and I shared an apartment with a girl who worked in a department store. I didn’t think about him anymore. My life was my work. I like writing articles and I had written a short story that had been published in a magazine. I dated a man who sold insurance and owned his apartment.

It was spring of the next year when I heard John was living in New York. Much to my surprise, he called me up and asked me if I would go to lunch with him. I was older then, and I thought that he had lost his appeal to me. I forgot about my boyfriend.

I knew, though, when I opened the door and saw him standing there in his green turtleneck, that my adolescent crush was still in full swing. He was more handsome than ever. He looked well.

“It’s good to see you,” I said. “Let me get my sweater and we will go.”

We walked to a deli, and we sat and talked and laughed. He told me that he was in creative for an advertising agency.

“That seems so out of character for you,” I laughed.

“Maybe it is,” he agreed. “Maybe this is all just a bad trip.”

I smiled. “Well, you seem to be doing well.” I told him about my story and the magazine I worked for. He was impressed, and insisted that he buy lunch.

When we were finished, he said, “Do you have plans today? There’s something I wanted to show you. Something I’m really proud of. They just put it up last week.”

“I’ve got time. What is it?”

He wouldn’t tell me. We walked down the streets, beyond the people milling around, and he told me about Vancouver when I asked.

And then, he stopped and looked up.

There, amid the city sky, was a billboard advertisement. It was a girl in red shorts, smiling with a cherry pop. The caption said, “Have a good night. Drink Cherr-Delight.”

I looked at him. “What’s this?”

“Do you remember that, Carol? When we walked to the store to buy beer, and I said I wanted to create a work of art that meant something to someone?”

I giggled, happily incredulous. “Yeah!”

“Well. What does this mean to you?”

I shrugged my shoulders, smiling, and shook my head. “I don’t know.”

He moved closer to me, and my breath caught in my throat. “I think you’re groovy. I always have.”

“I hope it means you’re going to ask me out to dinner,” I laughed, and he did too.

“Sure,” he said, and I smiled into his hazel eyes. “I couldn’t get the vision of you out of my mind. And when I got this job, and they needed an advertisement for Cherr-Delight, I felt like the stars aligned.”

Six lost years bubbled to my lips, and I said, “You should have kissed me.”

“How about I kiss you now?”