Strange Attraction

The year was 1997. In less than a month, the Graduating Class at Blair High would be opening that age-old door to the adult world and leaving their high school years in large part to the record books; leaving their little sandbox to follow the long stretch of beach that lay ahead of them. Old dig-ins would soon fill with sand as their minds turned in new directions, scouted-out new and exciting waves to ride. Stickers and locker door posters would soon be taken down, to be replaced with new, up-to-date ones when classes resumed in September. Corridors to high school adolescence would soon become little more than dusty, self-keeping memories in the minds of their maker-such walkways would need much more attention to keep their 'shine' as the years went sailing by.

The year was 1997 and the scuffed walkways to employment shone little glitter for would-be 'stars'. ' 'To make a mark in the world today', Wayne's father had once told him, 'you almost need a chisel and a stick of dynamite to light the way'.'

Just now, we find Wayne and his girlfriend, Bobbie, coming through the bright orange set of double doors that open onto the school parking-lot at the rear of the school; reaching Wayne's blue Ford 4-door, its freshly waxed shine sparkling beneath the warm spring sun, they pause for a kiss at the front passengerside door; leaning back against the door, Bobbie's low-cut creme-colored skirt begins to climb her legs in rhythm to her slow and prancy response to his kiss.

Suddenly she springs forward like the hammer on a loaded gun, the backs of her legs pricked by the hot, sun-drenched door.

' Ouch!' she protests, knocking Wayne back as she plows into him.

' What is it?' he asks, regaining his composure. Watching him collect himself, Bobbie begins to giggle uncontrollably.

'I burnt my behind on your car door,' she finally manages to say.

'Can I kiss it for you?' he asks advancing toward her.

Bobbie smiles shyly. 'Later,' she promises, turning to open the car door.

The familiar side streets unfold like a favorite chime from a music box as they leave the school parking-lot and make their way downtown to their favorite hangout, 'The Right Place'; Ellie Goldsmith is out in her front yard painting her window sills and waves her brush in the air as they pass by. That woman's so full of energy! Bobbie marvels, remembering the time last year when she and Wayne helped rake and bag autumn leaves. Why, ol' Ellie had bagged leaves about the same way she picked up men, while never forgetting her obligations to her two teenage children as a forty-one year old mother!

A thin line of dark storm clouds mark the horizon to the west above the mountains, precursors of an impending storm; the car radio is playing and Kate, the local meteorologist, has just broken-in for another up-to-the-minute tornado watch advisory report.

'...Once again,' she concludes as Wayne turns onto another quiet, scenic side street, 'a tornado watch is in effect until seven-thirty this evening.'

2

Situated off Main Street up Washington Avenue North and rivaled by a hopping pizza parlor on one side, a thriving little donut shop on the other, 'The Right Place', combination restaurant/soda shoppe, would at first glance appear to be quite heavily taxed; to the contrary it was probably the liveliest restaurant in all of Blair, attracting alot of the city's teens, as well as adults, which included no small number of the many summer/winter tourists and vacationers who frequented the area, its quaint, old-fashioned appearance including multi-paned windows and old-style board & baton siding facade-sure to catch the eye of any curious passersby. And in a tourist town like Blair, homespun originality often spelled success.

Located approximately five miles east of New York's famed Catskill Mountains (part-time residence of Whitley Streiber, author of the controversial book, 'Communion', a personal account of purported sightings and contacts with Alien spaceships in and around the Catskill region) and about 160 miles northwest of New York City, Blair offered both local and out-of-towners fair to easy access to the many first-class ski slopes and hiking trails located within the Catskill State Park Ski Resort area, a privately owned operation that held a lease on more than 3,000 acres of state park lands, as well as a magnificent view of the surrounding hills and mountains, either from within the Park or from any one of the town's comfortable hotels, or other such fare. And situated just a few miles off the 87 Thruway, one of the state's main arteries, and offering commuter air service to and from New York City, Blair offered convenience to top it all off.

While embodying all the main qualities of any large metropolitan area-including both a morning and evening newspaper, a highly competitive business climate, several centers for higher learning-Blair yet breathed an air of quaintness all its own as evidenced by its surrounding urbanless borders.

The downtown area, replete with hotels and other, related businesses such as travel agencies and credit card replacement centers, attracted travelers and the like the year-round and despite the daily, more steady revolutions of the town's other manufacturing bodies, continued to account for the lion's share of Blair's front-page economic portfolio irrespective of the latter, its beauty, as with any growing city, reflected in its promise for continued growth against the possible consequences of a slow-moving, even stagnant economy and the ensuing winds of change such an atmosphere creates.

Real estate, a fairly expensive item in this rather unique upstate New York town, changed hands rather slowly in neighborhoods where folks enjoyed their surroundings so much they'd pretty much settled-in for the longhaul, but was supplemented quite substantially by the town's ever-swelling borders and the rural, undeveloped lands they embraced.

Now leaving the quiet residential backstreets of Blair's lower west side, Wayne and Bobbie pass one of the several real estate offices owned by Bobbie's father as they pull out onto Main Street there at the corner of Main & Maple Heights; traffic is heavy this afternoon rush-hour and the Ford's tires burn rubber as Wayne darts out into traffic and merges with the stampede of vehicles heading in the downtown direction along the busy four-lane. Raising her hand nervously to her mouth in a some-what comic, despairing manner, Bobbie peers over at the main front window as they pass, hoping that her father has not left his main downtown office to check-up on things and- But he isn't there at the window and Bobbie suddenly lets out a short and sweet little giggle that had impregnated her lungs like a belly full of gas.

Traffic is slow-going, and by the time they reach the restaurant, Bobbie has finished reading five pages or so of her new paperback book; parking is available out in front of the place (a rarity except on Sundays) and Wayne pulls up to the curb behind-

'Alan?' Bobbie asks disbelievingly as she stares out through the windshield at the white Chevy Corsica parked there in front of them. The car looks much too clean to he Alan's, she thinks, but is convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt when her eyes make contact with the plastic hand flipping her the bird from the backseat window. 'I thought him and Penny were going to see that new movie playing over at...'

'The Witching Hour', Wayne reminded her, killing the motor. 'It must have sold-out before they arrived at the theater.'