Cold Never Stopped Us
On frigid nights like these, we were actually out and about when I was sixteen. In summer all hell broke loose, but winter cold never stopped us anyway. We had two party spots. Three, if you count the days hanging out in The Pit, the keosk in the middle of Harvard Square, Cambridge where the freaks could be one with one another; the skinheads, the art fags, the goths, punks, metal heads and skaters. But in suburbia where we were all from there were two main hangouts. 
One was The Acqueducts, a long woody path tucked away where we'd plant ourselves and the beer we scored from some of-age buyer who would take pity on us teens with seemingly nothing to do. The other was The Springs, which the Acqueducts would eventually lead to. It was an open field with a hill at one end where, again, we'd plant ourselves and whatever alcohol we'd scored. It was in a section of town called the Highlands and so we dubbed ourselves The Highlands Crew.
We were an incestuous lot, of course. And we had our own language for everything. "Scamming" meant hooking up or fooling around. "Score a packy" meant getting beer. "Toy" stood for something lame or whack, usually in relation to a bad "tag" or tag name which, in laymen's terms, was graffiti. "Boot and rally" was the plate someone was challenged to step up to if they got sick from drinking too much. The challenge was, could they puke -- boot -- and then still keep drinking -- rally? Then there were the drug verbs: "up", "off", "tweak", "flash". And when the joints we stood in a circle to smoke were spent, it was always offered up "to Jah."
Usually us girls were sent out to score a packy. Oftentimes Katherine and I volunteered. We liked being the ones to please the crowd. And it was a big crowd. On any given night there would be twenty to thirty of us; a walking nightmare for local merchants who felt that our loitering -- in our leather jackets with our cigarettes, reciting lyrics from Misfits or Led Zeppelin songs, rhymes by the Beastie Boys or De La Soul -- hindered their businesses.
Katherine and I would stand at the edge of the parking lot of the nearby liquor store and wait for someone of the male variety to walk by. Then we'd simply ask him if he would buy for us. No one ever said no. We'd place our order, which usually amounted to two cases of Budweiser or Golden Anniversary. On nights when we felt we could splurge with the allowances our parents gave us, or the paychecks for the few of us who actually had jobs, we'd buy Heffenreffer. Heffies were like champagne. And there would always be the random orders of Peach or Root Beer Schnaaps or Southern Comfort, usually for me and Katherine.
We could hang out all night in blustery nights like this with the alcohol warming the blood in our veins. Plus, we were young. We had stamina. We had webs to weave -- stories to tell our future college roommates or our kids one day -- and freedom to find.
