Cocktail Generation
Marjorie Simone Bouvier hummed The
New Wunkie's "Baby, Don't Get Bent Out Of Shape" to herself as she tightened the clasp on
her tiny pearl earring. When the catch
hooked into place she studied herself in the mirror for a moment, adjusting the
collar on her raspberry-colored blouse and pressing a crease out of her crushed
velvet maroon bell bottoms. In the next
room, her sisters were playing The Larry David Experience on their hi-fi at top
volume, while their exhausted father demanded from the kitchen that they "turn
down that racket!" Marge spritzed her pulse points with a hint of "Charlie"
before picking up her pocket book and clomping out of the room in her platform
wedge heels.
It was 1974 - the first day of her last summer vacation -
and she felt lighter than she had since her school career began. Marge stopped before the family mantelpiece -
where her high school diploma sat beneath a fame of glass and red metal. Her youth flashed by her dazzled eyes - years
of dedication to her betterment with very little time for play, a procession of
achievements which lead to praise but no progress. She had graduated in the top percentile of
her class, thanks to hours of endless cramming with her boyfriend...
Thinking of Homer, as per usual, seemed to summon him. Out in the street, his horn began to blare -
Marge's signal to leave the Bouvier abode swiftly,
before having to endure another lecture about 'that bum, Homer Simpson, and how
he's wrecking your life'. In the two
months she had spent dating Homer, Marge had learned something of absconding -
how to avoid the wrath of the adults in her life. For all of her practice, this time would not
be a success. From the corner of her
left eye, Marge noticed her father leaning over the morning paper, his eyes
sharply watching her.
"Be home at ten," he requested.
Marge hummed nervously.
"It's summer vacation, daddy. Don't you think, maybe, I could..."
"Nine. You start
your summer job tomorrow morning."
Marge's shoulders slumped.
She'd forgotten about her new position as a shoe saleswoman with
Hammertoe's Shoe Emporium. She hoped it
would help defringe the cost of her initial college
expenses when she started in August.
"All right...."
"And if someone hands you one of those funny cigarettes,
don't smoke it."
"Daddy, I'd never do -" another blast of
honking. "Homer's waiting for
me. Love you, dad."
"Mmm," he murmured,
returning to the paper. The Larry David
Experience began throbbing through the ceiling with a renewed volume. "TURN IT DOWN!" he demanded of
Patty and
A slight heaviness descended over Marge as she walked to
Homer's car. She had never been
particularly close to Clancy Bouvier. He worked odd days and nights on
transcontinental graveyard shifts for Pan
Homer swung open the passenger side door of his car. He kissed her noisily and appreciated her appearance. "Holy macaroni! You look great!"
She grinned. "Merci." He turned on the car. "Is Barney going to meet us down in the
woods?"
"Yeah - he's bringing some Duff and a guitar."
Homer turned sharply up the quiet suburban streets, driving just above the
speed limit but not recklessly.
"Barney can't play guitar."
"He can when he's drunk."
Marge frowned.
"I really think Barney might have a problem..."
"Nah! He's got a lot of experience with
drinking. He even got me my first fake
ID!" Homer wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "Don't worry about tonight - we're just
gonna groove and get funny and forget all about Dondalinger."
Marge rested her head against the inside of Homer's
arm. "Principle Dondalinger -"
"Doesn't control us anymore!" He honked his horn. "In your face,
Dondalinger!"
He was right - she need to stop worrying. They were free now,
practically adults - in her case, just a few days past turning eighteen- and no
adult could make them do what they didn't want to do. Homer had organized their class for
Springfield High's traditional Annual Senior Class Bonfire and Weenie
Roast. They had been planning this
bonfire for months, and she couldn't disappoint her friends...
On the radio, the Jackson Five began to beg for one more
chance, and Homer joined in with them.
***
"...So I find the male paradigm completely archaic to
the current power structure caused by the advancement of women. How do you feel about that, Marge?"
The crimson-colored flames which had enchanted the
blue-haired girl suddenly flickered, revealing the face of her friend
Chloe. The other seniors had drifted
away from the flames, tripping or passed out or making out in distant
bushes. She and Chloe were quite alone
by the fire.
Marge realized Chloe had been speaking to her and blushed.
"Sorry, sorry. My mind's been
everywhere today..."
"I've heard you've got a lot on your mind, counting in
your job and that application you put in to the Sorbonne..."
"Shh!" Marge whispered
frantically. Chloe grimaced, crawling
closer to Marge on the impulsively-selected log placed before the bonfire.
"You still haven't told Homer about
Marge played with the velvety ridges on her pant leg. "I don't have a reason to tell him
yet. What if I don't get the
scholarship?"
"He'll be sad for you, and he'll get over it. But if you get it, he's going to have a
long-distance relationship to deal with - the sort of thing a man needs an
entire summer to get ready for."
"How would you know?
You've never had one."
Chloe wrinkled her nose.
"You don't have to own roller-skates to know how to boogie
down."
"I guess that makes sense," Marge sighed. "This is my father's fault! I didn't want to go to the Sorbonne at all -
it would be less expensive for me to go to Springfield A&M. But daddy thinks I need time to 'season'
myself."
"Groovy. But
you're not a steak."
"I think he just wants me to get away from Homer."
Marge stopped herself from revealing too much of her long-concealed frustration
as Homer approached the bonfire along with Barney, a package of wieners in his
hand.
"You girls get the sticks?"
Chloe held out several long, thin birch limbs. Barney and Homer straddled the log, sitting
next to their respective girlfriends, and Homer took a hot dog from its wrapper
and stabbed it onto a branch, then did the same for Marge. Barney, noticing this chivalry, did the same
for Chloe...but handed the branch to her hot dog-side down, so that the young girl
received a slimy handshake.
"You want a beer?" Homer asked.
"Oh, no thank you."
"Marrrge! You've been legal for two whole weeks and you
still haven't had a drink!" Homer whined.
"Homer, the drinking age is twenty-one in
"I know that! I
was talking about that fake ID I got you for your birthday."
"Speakin' of that,"
Barney broke in, "do Madge Gunderson and Brian McGee wanna go to see The
Pitfalls of Pamela at the Tri-View Sunday?"
Marge's spine stiffened.
"Barney! That's that - adult
film - isn't it?"
"Boy, don't be so square, Marge! That 'adult film's the number-one movie in
the country!" Barney jabbed out his left arm, drizzling beer onto the
front of Marge's blouse. "Drink
some of this, you'll loosen up!"
"Barney!" Marge scolded, staring at the stain on
her blouse. "Oh no - I smell like
Otis from Mayberry!"
"You're not Otis!
Otis'd go see a nudie movie with his best
friends!"
"Lay off of Marge, man," Homer wrapped an arm
around his girlfriend. "Your hot
dog's burning up."
"Oh no!" Barney
slurred. "I'll save you, lil' hot dog!"
As he made a leap for the fire, Chloe restrained him, and
the two of them rolled to the ground behind the log, locked in a momentary
struggle which turned to a heated embrace.
Embarrassed, Marge looked away. Homer watched Barney with a bit of
slack-jawed delight, then felt Marge's eyes on him.
"You want to split for awhile?"
She nodded. They got
up and off of the log together, walking a ways over the uneven, stumpy ground -
partially into the woods, but not out of sight of the bonfire. Through the woods, the tinny sound of the hi-fi
resounded with a tune by Joshua.
When he was sure they were alone, Homer rested his hand on
Marge's shoulder. "You've been
really stressed out all night - what's the matter?"
"Oh, nothing," Marge looked at Homer - his thick
brown hair and somewhat-stocky physique hadn't changed in the months since
their prom night. Funny how he could remain ever the same
while she felt that the world was evolving evermore beneath her shoes. "Homer - have you ever thought about the
future."
"Yeah!" The excitement in
his voice made her smile. "Me and
Barney are gonna get an apartment together - my job at Sir Put-Put's is really starting to pay off. By the end of the summer, I'm gonna be able
to buy those new leopard-print seat covers for the car!"
His answer wasn't wholly satisfying. "That's wonderful, honey - but what are
you going to do AFTER the summer?"
He shrugged. "Stuff."
"Don't you ever worry about what's going to happen to
us?" Marge began to wring her hands.
"We have so many years ahead to live..."
"Pfft! Marge, you can't worry about tomorrow,"
his hand slipped down from her shoulder, to the middle of her back. "Life is all about today."
"I don't know..." she squirmed against his touch,
moving closer to the tree behind them.
He watched her in the firelight. "What's it gonna take to make you
smile?" He searched the ground with
his eyes for a moment, then released his hold on her,
plucking something small and shiny from the ground. Homer blew some dirt off of what he had
picked up, and it rained down between their bodies. In the uneven firelight, Marge realized it
was a tab from a soda can. "I
couldn't give you my class ring - stupid irregular fingers," Homer took
her right hand and slipped the pop top onto Marge's right index finger,
"but I can still show you I like you."
Marge held her hand up to the firelight. To her surprise, the pop top fit her finger -
it even looked like something she'd wear out into the world, an abstract piece
of modern art. "Oh, Homey, it's
beautiful!" She said, sincerely.
He sneered at himself.
"It's not something Artie'd give
you..."
She brought forward her left hand, stroking his lips. "Please forget about Artie."
In the pregnant silence between them, Homer pulled slightly
away from her, and then pulled off his bright red sweater, handing it to
Marge. "Here."
"What's this for?"
"To cover up the beer smell. I don't want your dad to get mad at us - even
though you're eighteen, he can still wreck our lives,” he said with some humor.
Marge smiled, putting the sweater on. "Not for much longer! After I start my job, I'll save money, and
maybe Chloe will move into an apartment with me, and then...."
Homer covered the distance between them. "Remember what I said? Life is all about today."
Even as he kissed her, Marge couldn't wholly own that idea.
***
They missed their curfew by an entire hour - arriving back
at Marge’s residence as the moon hung dead in the center of the sky. Homer didn't leave his car - though he
escorted Marge to the sidewalk, he didn't want to face the wrath of her
father. Alone, she entered the silent
and dark Bouvier living room, covered by Homer's
sweater and creeping across the carpet-covered floor.
At a snail's pace she tripped up the stairs and into her
room. The deathly silence of the house
confused her - if she stood completely still she could hear the regular rhythm
of her mother and sisters sleeping upstairs.
It occured to Marge that he father had left
again on another call with Pan-Am - and hadn't said goodbye to her.
Alone in her private sanctuary, Marge bundled Homer's
sweater underneath her bed - she took a brief whiff of his scent - Hi-Karate -
before doing so. She stuffed her new
blouse into her bottom drawer, deciding to clean it herself when the house was
empty, then neatly folded the rest of her clothing and piled them in their
proper placed in her chest of drawers.
Finally in her nightclothes, Marge sat down at the edge of
the bed, the night's activities dancing through her mind. As she went to push back her quilt, she
realized that her mother had deposited the day's mail onto her bedspread.
Two offers to join the Columbia House Record Club were
discarded, and a postcard from her childhood friend Kathy Johnson was set aside
for later reading. The final item was
what captured her interest - the raised seal of the Sorbonne.
With shaking fingers, Marge peeled back the top of the
envelope, meticulously unfolding and pressing flat the sheet of paper - deny
and withholding the inevitable. She
lifted the paper toward the pale pink shade of her nightlight and read.
Marjorie Bouvier has been accepted into the fall semester of the Sorbonne
Lycee...