I was a teenager during the late 70s. The days were easy, we were safe, life was good. We listened to a lot of music, smoked a lot of pot, experimented with other natural and not so natural stuff. I went barefoot all summer, and spent most of my time outdoors.
When my girlfriends and I were in high school, we found out about the ultimate party house through some other friends. It was the dream spot. A cottage right on the bay, tons of free pot to smoke since the owner grew his own, and lots of free adult beverages. We listend to a ton of Pink Floyd, John Prine, New Riders of the Purple Sage, Flying Burrito Brothers and Neil Young.
The drinks were always the same. Moon Juice. A pink concoction with vodka, lemonade and grenadine and gosh only knows what else. At 17, we thought we were the luckiest girls on earth. We could sit on the beach all summer, sipping moon juice, smoking red bud, without having to worry about parents or the police.
Or so we thought. First off, the owner of the house was not a kid. Not by any means. He was a man in his 40s, with children in their 20s, and he used the excuse of wanting to have young girls around because it reminded him of when his son was still alive. His son was decapitated in a horrible car accident when he was 17, and he said having young people around was sort of a tribute to his son. Yeah, right.
But we were naive, innocent and believed it all. We hung out there for a couple of summers and life continued to be good and safe. He didn’t hit on us, although there were rumours that he and one 18 year old were a couple. Hmmm…she did spend the nights there quite a bit. That said, the majority of us were pretty much grossed out by this revelation, but the perks of hanging out there were too much to give up and we partied on.
We partied on, and it was usually the same 10 to 15 girls who would show up at different times on the weekends. One day a new girl showed up. I don’t remember who she came with or when she first arrive on the scene. She was in her early 20s, so OLD by our standards, and she wasn’t pretty like the rest of us. She was a chubbier, older girl and she started hanging out a lot. She got pretty close with our group, and was nice enough. It even seemed that she might be forming more than a friendship with the owner of the house. We didn’t think much of it until…
One night we showed up, and she was there alone. We asked where John was, and she let us know he was due to arrive shortly. And then she sprung it on us. She told us she was with the narcotics division of the Virginia Beach Police Department and because we were young, innocent and not involved with selling drugs, she was going to cut us some slack and tell us to get the hell out of there before a large bust took place. She knew we were all from decent families, and decent kids making good grades with college on the horizon. Of course, we bolted. Hell, we were scared shitless.
Two days later the papers covered the story of a large drug bust. A drug bust that included things much bigger than a few pot plants, and could have easily gone down while we were present. I often think back to that time and wonder why we thought it was okay to hang out with a man that age. A man willing to plow us with drinks, pot and hallucinogens. I also wonder what happened to that guy, and were we just a reminder of his lost son, or did he just enjoy teenage girls in bikinis hanging out at his house all day and night.