Ginny

I remember the first time I met Ginny. It was during the summer at Trojan Ranch Camp in The Rockies. I was about 13 years old. Ginny lived in Venezuela and was arriving a day or two after the rest of us. “Ginny is coming today,” several campers said one morning. “Ginny is so cool!” Everyone was talking about her arrival. She had obviously come to our camp before. Who was this Ginny? I wanted to know. Later that evening, I finally met her. She was staying in the same cabin as my sister, Diane. So, after dinner, I headed over to my sister’s cabin. Diane was standing outside talking to a group of people. I walked over.

“This is Ginny,” said Diane. Ginny was standing next to Diane and a bunch of girls. She had thick brown wavy hair and tons of freckles. She wore a big warm grin. She looked friendly. Her brown eyes were almond-shaped like an Asian.

“Hi” I wanted her to be my friend. I felt special that I was introduced to her. She was the talk of the evening. “You’re from Venezuela?”

“Yeah, my Dad’s an ambassador. My brother and I come here every summer,” she pointed to her brother who was seated alone on a bench several feet behind her. “Felix”, she called out. He looked up, twinkly brown eyes. He had the same freckles and eyes as Ginny. His thick brown hair was cut short around his head. He had big ears.

“He totally looks like you” said Diane. I wondered if Ginny would be offended by my sister’s comment.

“Yeah,” Ginny laughed, “I know. He’s basically me with short hair” she laughed again.

The next day during free time, Ginny showed up to gymnastics, my favorite activity. I was happy to see her. “Cool, you do gymnastics too?”

“Yeah” she beamed. We took turns showing each other our best round-off-back-handsprings and walked around on our hands. There were hardly any other people during gymnastics. Most girls chose horseback riding or arts and crafts. Because it was often just the two of us and the gymnastics teacher, we had special privileges. We could do whatever we wanted as far as gymnastics was concerned. Our teacher was also one of the counselors who lived in the upstairs part of our bunk. One day after gymnastics she asked if we’d like to join her upstairs. No one had ever been upstairs. “Sure” Ginny and I answered right away.

We walked up the rickety wooden stairs to the second floor. Proper beds, not bunk beds like we had, were lined up and the room had big windows. Our counselor took a seat on her bed, a big Howard Jones poster on the wall stared at us. “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked while removing a pack of cigarettes from her bedside drawers.

“No problem” Ginny replied with a comfortable grin. Our counselor lit her cigarette with a pink lighter and took a drag as if she had just taken her first breath of air. “You can’t tell anyone about this. We’re not supposed to smoke,” she said while tilting her head back and exhaling.

“No problem,” both of us agreed. We felt special sharing this moment with a camp counselor. She proffered the cigarette to Ginny. “Want a drag?” Without blinking, Ginny took it. She smoked it with confidence and then turned to me as if to say it was my turn.

I stared at the cigarette. I was curious what it would taste like but scared it would hurt. I hesitated not sure if I had the courage. “No, that’s okay,” I replied, quite certain I had just missed a fabulous opportunity to be bad.

The dinner bell rang. Our counselor looked up surprised, stubbed out her cigarette and then sprayed perfume all over her shirt. On our way to the mess hall I said to Ginny, “I can’t believe you smoked! Did it hurt? What did it taste like?”

Ginny seemed totally at ease, “It doesn’t hurt.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve smoked before.”

Our short summer ended. The following summer at Trojan Ranch, I was lucky enough to have Ginny in my bunk. We were in the teen cabin where each morning began with showers and taking turns using hair dryers. A permanent mist of Aqua Net permeated the air. We both had braces and short hair. Madonna was at her apex and I wore a pink lace bow in my hair. Ginny and I shared a room with two other girls: Julie from Texas and Christine who looked like a handsome tan surfer. Julie was pale and a little chubby. She bore no resemblance to a teenager. She wore fancy haute couture clothing and got up in the wee hours of the morning to get ready. She had her own set of hair curlers. She would plug them in before the sun came up. Then she would proceed to roll her hair into neat rows while seated in front of a lighted mirror. She would make her bed and tidy up while her curlers set for at least 30 minutes. Ginny, Christine and I would exchange disapproving glances during her ritual.

One morning, after having supported Julie’s ridiculous routine for over a week, Ginny said, “Hey! Julie! Look over here!” She held her camera just inches away from Julie’s face and wore a provocative smile. “Say ‘Cheeeeese’”

“Oh, my god. No! Don’t take a photo.” Julie was mortified and held her hand in front of her face. Ginny’s camera clicked several times. “You better destroy that photo after it’s developed!” Julie pointed a threatening finger at Ginny and then stomped out of the room in tears.

“Well, it’s funny” Ginny tried to justify, “she looks like a frickin’ grandma!”

One evening, a storm descended upon us. Loud booms of thunder shook our room. Ginny whipped out her flashlight and held it under her chin. “Ahhhhhhh” she screamed, her brown eyes wide and wild.

Christine and I burst out laughing. It was pitch dark except for Ginny’s flash light. Julie abruptly answered, “Cut it out!”

“Why? Are you scared,” I asked.

Christine sang into the dark, “Carol Annnnnnn, Carol Annnnnnn, run to the light!”

Julie cried out, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

Lightening hit close to our cabin shaking the window pane. I observed Julie in the shadows, curled up in her bed. “Are you scared?” I asked again.

Ginny looked at me and seemed particularly amused. “Hey Jude” she bellowed out, “Don’t be afraid…take a sad song...and make it be-tuhhhh…” she sang off-key. Her voice gradually got louder and reached an unbearable volume by the end “HeyJude-HeyJude-HeyJudeh-Judeh-JudEH…Wow!”

Just then a big cracking strike of lightening hit outside our window. All of us shrieked and Ginny yelled out “Shit Fire!”

“Shit…fire? Is…that… what… you said?” I managed to squeeze out through my laughter.

“Yes,“ she started laughing, “Shit Fire!”

“Where’d you learn that? Who says that?” I asked.

“My mom!” And then all of us folded over laughing hysterically.

“Your mom?”

“Shiiiit fiiiiiiiire”, belted out Christine with her best opera voice. “Shiiiiiiit fiiiiiire!”

“Stop it you guys!” shouted Julie, “You are so immature.”

It is almost a written law that when you are acting immature and someone says so, it encourages more immature behavior. That night we were relentless with poor Julie. She threatened to change rooms.

Several summers past and we grew out of the whole summer camp deal. So, Ginny invited me to visit her for a week. I was so excited. We were about 15 years old. Her parents had divorced and she and Felix lived in Delaware with their mother. Ginny lived in a very nice town house that shared a common open yard with the other town houses. She knew all the teenagers in her neighborhood and frequented the homes of wealthy kids who dressed like little men. I had never seen such sophistication. Her mother worked and we were often home alone with her brother Felix.

One evening, Felix made himself a Scotch on the rocks and then asked if we wanted to take a ride with him to the gas station. Felix was younger than both of us, but we got in the back of the car with him as our driver. We went a couple blocks down the road and he parked the car at a gas station. He got out while holding his glass of booze. He preceded to yuck it up with the gas station attendant who must have been at least 40 years old.

“What he is he doing?” I asked Ginny. The two of us peered out of the back window.

“I don’t know,” she laughed, “he looks ridiculous.”

“Look, Ginny! He took his Scotch with him.”

“Oh my god”, she laughed again, “what is he doing?”

“He must think that’s what men do.” I answered.

The two of us watched him as he spoke to the gasoline guy, one hand on his hip, the other holding his glass of Scotch as if this is what a normal guy does on a daily basis. Felix got back in the car and Ginny and I teased him during the entire two minute ride home.

Soon after, Ginny received a phone call inviting us to hang out with one of her friends, Scott. Felix drove and then came in with us. He sat on the couch, glass in hand, watching the TV in the living room. Scott came over to us in starched white shorts and a clean red shirt. He was tall with brown curls. “Hey Ginny!” he said warmly. I was introduced and he asked if we wanted to go sit outside. His front yard was made up of rolling green hills of perfectly cut grass. Huge ornamental rocks lined the driveway.

“Have you got any of those Whippits?” asked Ginny.

“I think so” he said while getting up and heading to his blue BMW parked in the driveway. He popped the trunk and rummaged around for a couple seconds. “Right here,” he pulled out a red tank that looked like a small fire extinguisher and dangled it above his head.

“Sweet!” beamed Ginny.

“What are Whippits?” I asked.

Scott and Ginny looked at each other. “You don’t know what Whippits are?”

I was growing more curious by the minute.

“You gotta try them, they are so much fun!” He continued rummaging in his trunk and took out a silver brief case. He walked over and sat down in the grass next to us.

“I hope I have some left” he said while unlocking his little case. He popped open the lid and inside
were a dozen little silver canisters.

“What are those?” I asked.

“You are gonna like these!” he said holding one up. He screwed it into the top of the small red tank. Ginny and I watched quietly. He inserted some kind of plastic piece into his mouth and pressed down. The sound of air whooshed out, the same noise a can of whipped cream makes. He put the can down. A slow grin crept over his entire face and he lied back in the grass, his smile gradually growing bigger.

“What’s it feel like?” I asked in amazement. Scott did not answer. He lied on his back in a trance. Then, five seconds later, he popped up and said, “Man, that was sweet!” He passed the tank to Ginny. “Your turn” he said.

“It only lasts a couple seconds? Is it bad for you?” I was perplexed. “What is it?”

“It’s a gas”, he explained.

“Where do you get it?”

“At a special store”, he replied. “I get a friend to buy them. You have to be 21 years old.”

I was stunned that it was legal to sell such a thing. It seemed like something that should be illegal.

Ginny put the piece in her mouth and pressed down. Whoosh! Then she too got that silly crescendo grin until she lied back in the soft lawn just like Scott had done. Scott took the tank and shook it. It made a rattling sound. He unscrewed the canister. It was empty. He popped in a fresh one and handed it over to me.

“Okay, here it goes,” I put it in my mouth, pressed down and inhaled. I felt cool air entering my lungs then a very light feeling in my head. It felt amazing. I smiled and lied back just as the others had done. I felt so heavy and so light at the same time, so comfortable, so happy. The feeling lasted less than thirty seconds.

We did several rounds and soon all the canisters were empty. We went back inside and watched a James Bond movie that was on TV for a while and then Scott announced that his buddies were throwing a party. Did we want to sneak out and meet them? Sneak out? Party? We were very excited. Ginny made some phone calls and one of her friends volunteered to pick us up at 11p.m. That evening we feigned exhaustion and retreated to her upstairs bedroom only to sneak out an hour afterwards. A big black pick-up truck was waiting for us on the other side of the street.

“Come on” she ran across the street and jumped into the flatbed. I followed suit and sat next to her. The truck pulled out, summer breeze on our skin as we were carried to our next destination…to my next adventure with Ginny.