STEPH DEROSA: I DROVE A VAN INTO A HOUSE >>>
The moment I step into Rhapsody in Bloom Florist and Caffe Latte I feel transported to a land of relaxation. Whether it's raining or sunny, you feel part of the outdoor garden as you sit beneath the glass-ceiling greenroom. Walking through the multi-leveled cafe and floral shop makes you feel as though each room is a different person you are meeting at a party.
Off to the left of the front entry you can glance behind you and see the beautiful flowers ready to be put together in arrangements. They sit together as the elite group of pretty girls at the party. They watch you walk in with a smile on your face, and they judge you immediately. They're watching you, what you're wearing, and whom you're with. They have already determined your agenda for the evening, and it's not with them.
The glass room beneath you on the right is the social area and living room. Keep on walking and you enter the kitchen. Warm coffee and delectable treats center themselves in the middle of this inviting house. To the left of the kitchen is where I would imagine the make-out room would be. It has mood lighting and cuddling written all over it.
Immediately upon entering the bathroom, I'm thrown back in time. As I take a break from my house party fantasy and rest my bum, I recollect an old friend whom I'll never forget.
Henry was a wild child, and we grew up together living only one street apart. We celebrated my 16th birthday together, and it was extremely uneventful in the means of parties and gifts. The only thing that mattered to Henry and me that day was the thing that mattered to most 16-year-old Houston teenagers: a driver's license. Alert all traffic patrols and strap on your helmets, I had Henry by my side and the legal ability to drive a car. On the streets. With no parents. Boo-yah.
A few weeks after achieving my lifelong 16-year-old goal of having a driver's license, spring break rolled around. Henry had a huge white van, which made a perfect spring break road trip vehicle¬" so off we went. As we approached the beach, I declared that I should be driving. I now had a license, and dammit I should be driving. Henry agreed. Yes, I should be driving¬" but only on his lap.
Drive on his lap? That made perfect sense. Yes, he could control the speed and I could control the steering wheel¬" brilliant!
I shimmied up onto his lap at the next stoplight and squeezed my legs between Henry and the steering wheel. It was springtime in southern Texas, which means it was a balmy 85 degrees at least, and I was sweating my ass off in shorts. The steering wheel stuck to my legs at every turn and made recovering the sharp turns somewhat difficult. As we moved toward a local beach neighborhood, the teamwork of Steph steering and Henry accelerating somewhat deteriorated. I took a hard right, he accelerated, the steering wheel stuck to my legs, and we turned. We turned right into a house. Literally. Our van was in someones living room.
The crazy part was that we were able to back out of the living room and proceed to the beach.
The memory of this scares me on so many different levels¬" and still punches me in the stomach with guilt and worry. I have no idea whose house it was, and have repeatedly tried to recollect exactly where this all happened. I've visited the streets in this beach town again and again. I cannot find the house.
Henry's van had some minor damage, and he informed me that he'd not tell my mom if I had sex with him. I gave him a big hell no and then informed him that I'd kick his ass if he told my mom. He agreed in the latter of the two bargains.
I snap out of the memorable daydream, wash up, and head back out to collect my coffee and flowers for my mom on Mother's Day. I consider the fact that my mom still knows nothing of the illustrious van story, one of the best Mother's Day gifts I could ever give her.
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