Crossroads

There is a fountain in the courtyard. I sit by it and listen to its intermittent babbling. One moment trickling calm, the next, urgent and spurting. I ponder how tonight's class fits into the bigger picture of my future. A fitting analogy, given this is an art class. Is it wrong to take the road most traveled on, I think to myself as the fountain gurgles wildly. The nagging feeling that class will start soon pulls me from my plans for the future. The water slowly ebbs and I pack my things.

"Pizza, pizza"

Obsession.

The song by Animotion, not the perfume by Calvin Klein, although they both came out in the first half of the 80s.

“Obsession” was on heavy rotation on the jukebox when my friends and I spent weekend nights at Round Table Pizza on the corner of Glenoaks and Alameda.  It’s another kind of pizza place now, the faux coats of armor no longer gracing the front doors.  I haven’t set foot in there since the 80s so I’m not terribly sad about it.  Should I be?

We didn’t go there to eat, though we must’ve consumed copious amounts of pizza and soda in our day; we went there to hang out.  To play “Obsession” on the jukebox and stare at the cute guys that worked there.  Charles.  One of them was named Charles.  I don’t remember what he looked like other than having dark hair.  Did he go to one of the local high schools?  Did he have a car?  A motorcycle.  I think he had a motorcycle.  I don’t really remember much about Charles except that he had dark hair and my best friend had a crush on him.  So we’d park ourselves at a table and giggle over him while plugging quarters into the jukebox.

Did we ever talk to Charles?  Did my best friend ever ask him out?  I don’t remember because Charles wasn’t why we went to Round Table, he was just eye candy.  We went because that’s what we did in junior high.  We hung out at Round Table Pizza.  That was our place.

I got into an altercation with one of my best friends there once.  I have no idea what we argued about (boys?) but I remember she kicked my bike and I boldly proclaimed to her that if anything was wrong with it, “I’ll sue you!”  That was probably the first inkling that law would be my chosen field later in life.

My other best friend used to spike her drinks under the tables.  She had a mini alcohol bottle and would refill it from the wet bar at my Dad’s house.  Some parents had wet bars that were kept behind lock and key, broken into on occasion like a bad after school special.  Not at my Dad’s house.  Nope, at Dad’s house the alcohol bottles were sitting in plain sight on the counter.  My friend would top off her mini bottle whenever necessary and then she’d spike her soda under the table when we went for pizza.  I say “under the table” because my Dad was sitting right across from us.  Either he never noticed or he didn’t care.  I’m not sure which is better.

But the night to top all nights in Round Table history was the night of the “wives.”  I think the four regulars were there that night: me, Fleur, Sheri, and Cindy.  We were hanging out, playing “Obsession” on the jukebox more than anybody ever should and being obnoxious teenagers.  Teenagers will never admit to being obnoxious until much later in life, at which point they will look back with a smile and confess, “We were totally obnoxious.”  Maybe we were talking too loud, giggling too much over Charles, or had played “Obession” one… too... many... times.  I’m not sure, but whatever it was we were doing caught the attention of two couples at a nearby table.  They wouldn’t stop staring at us so we glared back, because that’s what teenagers do.  Perhaps they were setting their heat-seeking death stares upon us, trying to silently will us to shut up with their laser eyes.  Or maybe they were musing amongst themselves fondly about how silly and obnoxious they were at that age.  Or maybe they were just pervs.  We decided, in our infinite wisdom as 8^th and 9^th graders, that it was the latter: the couples were staring at us because they were dirty little pervs, ogling junior high girls.

We hovered at our table, whispering amongst ourselves as to which course of action was best.  Do we confront them?  Ignore them?  Decisions, decisions.  We finally came up with a brilliant plan – how could it not be brilliant, coming from the minds of a bunch of thirteen and fourteen year olds?  We waited until they left and followed them out onto the sidewalk.  There they were, up ahead of us, walking toward the parking lot.  Hands on hips, full of bravado, we hollered at them, our high pitched voices cutting through the night air.

“Why were you staring at us?  What’s the matter, aren’t your wives good enough for you?!”

Whenever I hear “Obsession” I am a teenager again, standing on a sidewalk outside of Round Table Pizza, yelling at imaginary perverts.

Because that’s what we did.  It was our place.