Peppermint Tea & A Love Letter to Life Before the Internet
Peppermint Tea & A Love Letter to Life Before the Internet
Lately, I find myself musing on what life was like before the dawn of the internet age. There was such a spirit of serendipity to things then. Some of you remember. At the time, it was just normal life but now I reflect, with reverence, on those ordinary days. Days I thought would never change. I delved into these memories deeply over the last two weeks during my internet detox/instagram break. Honestly, let me tell you-I didn’t miss instagram a bit! I did miss my connections with some of you though. Instagram has done a good job of training us all to conduct our social lives through their platform. I guess that’s the whole point of “social” media. And for those of us that are spiritual self employed folks-instagram has integrated itself into our businesses. I am back on there for now BUT I really want to interact in real life and on my own creative platforms-my website, newsletter and podcast mainly. Please reach out, just hit reply to this email if you feel called! Now I wanna tell you a little story.
When I got my first car, it was out of practicality. Southern California wasn’t bus friendly. It was the winter of 1989, I’d just turned 16. I was going to school, working two jobs, taking dance classes and my grandparents didn’t have the time to drive me “all over creation” to everything. Through a friend, they found me a 1982 Buick Skylark for cheap. It was definitely a grandparents car. But it had power windows, comfy seats, a tape deck and four doors. It was an unremarkable beige color with blue stripe details on the sides. I drove that car all over North County. No phone, no gps, with no plan other than an occasional vague destination.
My friend Garth worked at the Metaphor cafe and I’d often show up there looking for something to do. I’d met Garth in the parking lot of a goth club the summer before. He called me Imelda, after Imelda Marcos. He said he’d never seen a goth girl with so many different pairs of shoes. I had skull buckle boots, mary janes, strappy block heeled shoes, several pairs of witchy boots, black on black converse, little slippers with bows on the toes… Looking back, I’m sure that Garth had a crush on me, he would light up and break into a huge smile when I’d show up at his work. Garth made me endless cups of peppermint tea while I’d sit at a table close to the counter writing poetry and diary entries. When it was slow he’d come sit and chat with me, most of the time he gave me advice on whatever failed romance or crush I was recovering from. Garth wasn’t bad looking, he was tall with curly, golden brown hair, his style was more hippie than goth. He’d always been there for me, felt safe and was kind and for those reasons, he wasn’t boyfriend material for me. I was still working through exploring a few partner archetypes in my teens & 20s. The bad boy, the forbidden love, etc. On this particular Friday I was obsessing over a certain friend’s ex-boyfriend who’d immediately started dating another friend of ours. The ex-boyfriend hadn’t even been single for 24 hours before he linked up with our other friend. I felt cheated out of my chance to connect with him and whined to poor, patient Garth about it. He listened faithfully only getting up to answer the phone.
The phone was always ringing at the cafe. People would call Garth at work and tell him what was going on that night so he knew where people were hanging out when he got off. The plans were ever changing. If I didn’t have plans, I’d go along with him.
“Ok so we’re meeting at the parking lot of Distillery at 9.” Distillery was the underage goth club. And then the phone rang.
“Ok, the plan changed, now we’re meeting at the park down the street…” hmmm. None of these options sounded exciting. I sipped my tea and continued scribbling words into my journal.
“You’re coming right?” Garth asked hopefully.
“Maybe..” I said
30 minutes passed. I stared out the window, watching a towering eucalyptus tree swaying in the breeze, the air carried the scent of it’s leaves into the cafe. Garth appeared to drop off another cup of peppermint tea to wash down the dry toast I was eating (being vegan in the 80s and early 90s meant dry toast and black coffee as no one had dairyless alternatives-but I didn’t mind, I was so devout). The door of the cafe was swung open by Garth’s friend Steve. He stood in the doorway dramatically for effect. “Ok, so change of plans. There’s gonna be a show, on the hill, where that abandoned house used to be, above Questhaven.” Now this sounded interesting!
Questhaven was a wooded, rural area shrouded in mystery and urban legend. Many nights had been spent driving it’s windy roads with various friends. There was an abandoned house on the hill that teen partiers had accidentally burnt down years before. All that remained were some outbuildings and the stone foundation of the house that made for a dramatic stage and local bands would sometimes play shows there before they got shut down by the cops.
Steve came and sat down at my table
“You coming?” he asked.
“Definitely.” I said
Two hours later we piled into Steve’s VW bus. Garth helped me into the passenger seat “M’lady rides shotgun.” He did an elaborate bow as he shut the door and hopped into the back. We were racing towards Questhaven as I tried to reapply my black eyeliner. Within minutes we were barrelling down haunted, winding roads, surrounded by trees, windows open to the night air. The darkness sheltered us, not another car in sight, no streetlights, just two headlights illuminating the narrow road. We went on and on in silence for 20 minutes or more. Each of us lost in our own thoughts until Steve said “I think we’re almost there..” There were cars parked on the sides of the road, Steve pulled over to join them. I jumped out of the van, adjusted my black slip dress as I entered the waiting night. We began walking on a dirt road that trailed up the hill.
“Who’s playing tonight?” I asked.
Steve laughed, and said, “That band Roadkill.”
We’d all heard of Roadkill. Some guys in their early 20s that worked at the cool record store in Encinitas had started the band and it was rumored they had dead animal props and fake blood at their shows.
We came to the top of the hill and entered a clearing of hastily parked cars, crowded with teenagers and 20 somethings drinking beer and whatever else, heads turned to watch our arrival, a few friendly faces smiled or said “Hi”. Garth pulled a bottle of cinnamon schnapps out of his jacket pocket, offering it to me. “No thanks.” I said. I never drank. I was too afraid of getting out of control, of missing something. As we moved through the crowd, I saw the band by the elevated stone structure where the house once stood. Four guys in ripped jeans and various black t-shirts drinking beer, standing around like kings of the castle. One of them wasn’t drinking, his dirty blonde and bright pink hair fell into his eyes, he took a long drag off a cigarette and looked straight at me. The sleeve of his flannel shirt was frayed, a pack of marlboro reds were sticking out of the front pocket. He must be the singer. He continued staring at me as he delicately flicked ash from his cigarette. I looked away.
Garth and Steve decided to explore the party. I sat down with my back to a tree, just taking it all in. The earth beneath me was warm and dry, my bare legs met the warm evening air. I pulled out my journal and started to write what I saw.
Towering trees, the darkest night with a warm breeze, people, people everywhere, drinking to feel like they can be free, hiding behind a bottle, pretending courage, stars in the sky so bright I could cry…
“Are you a poet or something?” I turn to find the guy with the pink hair bending down behind me, reading over my shoulder. I slammed my book shut.
“I’m a writer.” I said
“Looks like you write poetry.” he smiled
“I write poetry sometimes.”
“I lIke your hair. It’s apricot colored. I guess people call it strawberry blonde, right?” He said
“Yeah, they do. Thanks.” I felt uncomfortable but also intrigued. I could see Garth and Steve standing 15 feet away or so, watching us. Garth was smirking.
“My name’s Joey.” He looked into my eyes and I felt heat flush through my face. I noticed how dark the stubble appearing on his face was. He looked at least 4 or 5 years older than me, maybe more.
“Do you sing in the band?” I asked
“Yeah and I play guitar.” he said
Garth and Steve stumbled over, interrupting us.
“Dude, you’re in the band right? When are you gonna play?” Steve said, clearly drunk.
“Um, we’re waiting on a guy to bring the generator so we have power.” Joey looked annoyed.
“Imelda, are you having fun or do you want to go look for the haunted barn with me?” Garth said
“Your name's Imelda?” Joey asked, laughing.
“No, he just calls me that.” I glared at Garth.
“Only I can call her Imelda.” Garth said sloppily, putting his arm around me.
“Maybe I’ll call you Poet? Is that cool?” Joey asked.
It was all too much. I was overwhelmed and before I realized what I was doing, I was on my feet running into the night as fast as I could. I felt the air in my lungs and the dry grass on my legs as I left the boys behind me. I heard someone running to catch up with me. “Please don’t be Garth!” I thought. I ran on my dancers legs until I had to stop and collapse into the grass. I laid on my back, breathing hard, stars stared down on me as I lay there. I could hear someone coming closer and in a few moments Joey flopped down next to me.
“You run fast. Or I just smoke too much. I couldn’t keep up.” He was gasping for air.
“I love being out here, in the darkness, under the stars, with no one around. I feel like I could just disappear right here.” I said
“You’re really fucking weird. That’s a compliment. And you’re really pretty.”
I turned my head to look at him, he was staring at my face. I took in his pale blue eyes, long lashes, dark eyebrows, defined jawline, hair that was perfectly grown out, a tarnished silver chain with a virgin mary medal hung around his neck. Butterflies fluttered warmly in my chest. I wished time would stop so I could stay frozen in the moment, luxuriating in the feeling of how magical it was. How real and unreal he seemed as he laid beside me.
Garth came crashing through the grass calling out my name. I stood up.
“Hey, I’m here.” I shouted
“Cops are here, we gotta go. Now.”
Joey jumped to his feet “Oh shit, my guitar!” He turned to go then stopped, “Hey Poet, mystery girl, come see me at work sometime.” he said as he ran off into the night.
My arm intertwined with Garth’s and we walked down the hill trying to find the road. Red and blue lights flashed in the distance. I was lost in thought, remembering every detail of Joey’s face.
“You know that guy’s like 25 right?” Garth said
“No, he’s probably like 19, 20.” I replied
“Um, he’s older than that.”
Maybe he was. I’d probably never see him again. I had those moments to hold in my heart. His face inches from mine, just the two of us and a starry sky.