Little Eric’s Big Weekend: A Sound & Stories After Dark Tale

In the spring of 1995, I was fifteen years old, a sophomore, and I had just completed an important rite of passage: I had secured my first job. For twenty hours a week, I donned a pair black slacks and the ultra-90’s teal-and-maroon Arby’s uniform to sling roast beef from the Oakwood Mall location. Because my sixteenth birthday wasn’t for another few months, I wasn’t allowed to operate the deep fryer, and whenever my parents weren’t able to give me a ride, I biked to the mall for my shifts.

After a couple months of setting aside their plans on my behalf, my parents wanted to take my younger brothers camping for the weekend, but I had been scheduled to work. A classic parenting dilemma. But one simple question held the key to an easy solution. Could fifteen-year-old Eric be trusted to stay home alone?

Of course he could! He was a former altar boy, a choir kid, and a Boy Scout. Courteous, kind, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent. The whole deal. Be prepared. Just about my only vice back then was pilfered Victoria’s Secret catalogs. Still, before they hooked up the camper and headed out, my parents established some clear rules. No one, and they meant no one, besides me was allowed in the house. Other than that, if I made sure the doors were locked and the lights were off when I left, mom and dad would allow me my first taste of true independence—I could spend my first weekend home alone.

I promise you, I had every intention of following my parents’ rules.

On Saturday, I biked to the mall and diligently completed my job. On that particular shift I worked with my assistant manager Abby, a funny North High School senior who kept her brunette hair in a perky ponytail. In between customers, Abby spent much of the time conversing with her best friend Emily, a tall, artsy blonde with a pixie haircut, who was assistant manager at Ollie’s Ovens, the restaurant in the food court slot next to Arby’s. In addition to discussing mutual friends, teachers, and other mid-1990’s teenage girl topics, they had recently discovered another way to entertain themselves: they loved making me, the “nice boy” standing at the register, squirm.

This was not a challenging task.

In addition to my tenure as a Boy Scout, altar boy, choir kid, etc., I also attended Regis High School, a small, sheltered Catholic school, and this was the era when North earned national media attention when an administrator discovered two students fornicating in the school hallways. Suffice to say, Abby and Emily were much more “experienced” than I was, and they quickly learned that any discussion of drugs, parties, sex, bodily functions, etc. would make my cheeks turn instantly red while I tried to stammer a response. At some point that evening, amidst the “education” Abby and Emily were giving me, I made a huge mistake. I let slip that I was home alone for the weekend.

“Oh my god,” said Emily. “We’re definitely coming over.”

Two attractive senior girls who willingly wanted to come to my house while my parents weren’t home? This wasn’t Victoria’s Secret territory. This was Penthouse Letters. But even the prospect of an unbelievable teenage male fantasy becoming reality couldn’t overcome my deep and unshakable innocence.

“No way,” I said. “Forget it.”

“It’s no big deal,” said Abby. “We’ll bring some friends. It’ll be fun.”

They kept threatening to invade the sanctity of my parents’ home until my discomfort turned to anger. “Absolutely not,” I said, my voice shaking as tears approached. “I would get in so much trouble.”

They knew they had gone too far. “Relax,” said Abby. “We’re just joking.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and finished my shift. After our 9:00 PM closing time, I cleaned the shake machine and clocked out. I hopped on my bike and pedaled home as the last rays of sunlight departed the sky, up the Golf Road hill and back down, towards our home in the Mitscher Park neighborhood. Upon arriving, I took a few minutes to soak in the independence and push aside the tiny part of me that wished for the comfort and protection of my parents’ presence.

And then, the doorbell rang. I don’t need to tell you who it was.

“How did you find out where I lived?” I asked.

“We got your address off your job application,” said Abby.

I admired their resourcefulness, but it didn’t affect my resolve. “You can’t come in,” I said.

“Your parents will never find out,” said Emily. “Please? I just need to use the bathroom.”

The Boy Scout manual had failed to prepare me for this situation. Disobeying your parents isn’t very scout-like, but neither is being rude to guests.

“Fine. But you can’t stay long.”

Abby and Emily charged past me and settled on the couch. As my heartrate slowed, I was able to recognize how much this situation resembled the teen movie of my dreams. A couple of girls, just hanging out. Where could this possibly lead? And then the phone rang. It was my mom, checking on her precious son on his first night alone.

“Everything’s great, “I said, staring daggers at Abby and Emily, shushing them with emphatic waves of my hand. “Work was good. I’m just going to watch some TV and go to bed. Yep. I promise to feed the cats. And I’ll definitely remember to brush my teeth.”

Abby and Emily giggled as they pantomimed making all sorts of noise. After hanging up, my anger returned.

“Get out,” I said. “Right now.”

“We’ll leave, but only on one condition,” said Abby. “You have to come with us.”

Little fifteen-year-old Eric never would have guessed at the time, but I’m pretty sure this had been their plan all along.

“Fine,” I said. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

I don’t know if I’ve ever been as scared as I was sitting in the back of Emily’s car. These were North students, and based on the rumors and stereotypes I was subjected to back then, that meant we had to be heading towards an orgy or a gang fight. A crack den? Would I survive the night? And if I did, would I even be the same person?

It didn’t take long before our destination became clear: Riverview Park, on Eau Claire’s north side. We pulled up next to a handful of other cars and a circle of Abby and Emily’s friends. More vehicles arrived, including a Bronco that skidded to a stop with emergency lights on top flashing like a cop car. That was the moment where I glimpsed the afterlife, because my heart stopped. But everyone else laughed as another of their friends jumped out of the driver’s door. Just as I thought I understood what was happening, and found some confidence that I could indeed survive a brief, late-night gathering in the parking lot of a public park, Emily turned to me and said the most the most insane, mind-blowing words she could have possibly uttered.

“Take your clothes off,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“We’re going swimming!”

I was already saturated with adrenaline. I didn’t think I could handle any more, but here we were, at yet another pivotal moment in the lives of most young, heterosexual, pre-internet males. I can’t speak for anyone else… Actually, I can. This was the moment most teen boys spend their whole lives waiting for. Real-life female nudity. Holy cow. What would it be like? What should I do? It turned out the Victoria’s Secret catalogs had left me ill-prepared. Suddenly Emily was fully naked and Abby was peeling off her clothes, too, as were the half-dozen or so other late-night swimmers.

In any other situation, I would have been paralyzed with self-consciousness, but I no longer possessed the capacity. I shed my clothes and joined everyone in water. A few people raced each other up and down the sandbar, their private bits bouncing along with their strides. I stayed closer to shore (in waist-deep water, of course), splashing and laughing, but mostly trying to play it cool as I stole glances at the menagerie of wet bodies in the moonlight. Nothing could have prepared me for the way I felt. Three hours earlier, I had a been a Boy Scout with a job at Arby’s. Now, I was something else. Still a Boy Scout, still employed by the Arby’s corporation, but different. Most of the time, we grow up without noticing. Suddenly we’re older, wiser, and more experienced with little idea how it happened. Other times, growing up hits you like the cold water of Dells Pond on a late spring night: shocking, exhilarating, and oh-so-addicting.

Before too long we all got dressed, and Abby and Emily gave me a ride home. They talked while I sat dazed in the back seat. This time, when we returned to my house, they didn’t tease me about coming in. I changed into my pajamas and laid in bed, unblinking, for what felt like hours. I replayed the night’s events over and over, and each time I doubted more and more that they had actually happened. That couldn’t have been real, right? I must have dreamed the whole thing.

If only they gave merit badges for skinny dipping.