The Emancipation of Mollie O’Neil

                No, she is not a carrot-headed Irish Lassie.  Her hair color, on the bright side is chestnut, otherwise auburn, depending upon the light.  Her eyes are brown, a deep rich brown but once again, if the light is right, the cornea, that part of the eye that captures light waves, is emerald green which radiates  through the iris. 

                But none of this is observable as she cautiously worked her way up the graveled lane, staying to the shadows – avoiding the direct beams of the full moon setting in the west.   It was Saturday night.  Within the hour the moon would slip behind the tall Chinese Elm trees up ahead and then drop behind the Oquirrh Mountains.  She had pondered before starting out on this scary adventure if she would be safer once the moon had set, but opted to take advantage of the lunar light as opposed to pitch blackness. 

                The narrow, hoary lane was a dead end lateral off busy four-lane Redwood Road.  It had been in continual use since 1880 when the stone foundation of the oldest house on the lane was laid.   Back then the mode of transportation was horse and mule.   The lane dead ended at the old, green stucco house, but 200 yards before entering the yard of the old house the lane made a 90 degree turn to the right.  Between this turn in the lane and the old green house was a new, brown brick house, the home of the daughter and son-in-law of the old folks who lived in the old green stucco house. 

                Down this younger, 50 year-old added lane were three houses, one on the right hand side, another 400 hundred yards on the left side, and the third house at the dead end.  Between the house on the left and the old folks’ daughter’s house was a large fruit and vegetable garden tended by the old folks who lived in the green stucco house.  The garden was protected from deer and stray livestock by a 5 strand barbwire fence.  This was one of the few areas left in Salt Lake County that was still rural, 5, 10 and 20 acre ranches and farms.  Over the years the large farms had been broken up to make room for progeny. 

                There were three houses on the lower portion of the lane.  It was only 10 pm and all three houses were still lit up – the light glaring ominously, threatening to expose Mollie O’Neil, a sixteen year-old with the fetching curves and charm of a nineteen year-old. 

                Her heart started pounding.  She didn’t know if it was from excitement or fear.  Under ordinary circumstance a teenage girl walking up the lane at 10 o’clock at night would be no big deal.  There were teenage girls and boys living on the lane.  But this was not ordinary and that is why her heart was going pitter patter, for she was about a surreptitious errand – an initiation dare.

                By any measure Mollie O’Neil was a good girl and what she was about to attempt was way out of character.  As she stood in the shadows admiring the full glory of the moon she said to herself, “Why did I let myself get talked into this stupid situation?” 

                But she knew why.  They were not an official sorority, just a gaggle of high school girls who narcissistically thought of themselves as the cutest, coolest most popular girls in school.  They established their feigned superiority by way of haughtiness, carefully selecting those boys and girls they would talk with and associate with.  They thus became the style setters of the school – not as mentors but as self-appointed aristocrat and plutocrats, to be envied or hated.  The portrayal was so effective that teachers took notice and a few of the elite pedagogues reinforced this snobbish social status.  If you were a member of the group, which came to mean, sumptuous breeding, pecuniary superiority or extraordinary good looks, you were assured good grades.

                It was by this sophisticated method of induction into the upper-crust kids that Mollie O’Neil was invited to be a member of the group.  Not because of her pedigree.  Her father was a common cop albeit of high rank and prestige among his peers, but that meant little to the privileged class.  And of course cops are not noted for their economic prowess.  Because her Dad was a cop, if she were caught, it would make this stupid misadventure that much more humiliating.

                 It was Mollie’s beauty and brains that made her an initiate.  She had emerged into her sophomore year a resplendent beauty displaying all those feminine, corporeal features that romantic young women dream of.  What made her special is that her physical assets, as well as her personality were natural – no gaudy cosmetic cover-ups.  Nor was she infected with conceit for she focused on good grades rather than popularity, at least until the group let her know she could be one of them.

                She had been indifferent to the upper-crust kids when out of the blue she was invited to sit with them at the elite table in the lunch room.  Unlike other attractive girls at school she had not attempted to butter-up to the group which made her an enigma and contributed to the group’s decision to induct her. 

                Mollie O’Neil was unprepared for the blandishments that followed.  It suddenly dawned on her that she had been sought out by the most popular girls and boys in the school.  The hubris impacted her like a stiff shot of whiskey, breaking down her inhibitions and she submitted to the groups gossamer pandering.  For the next few days she was a regular at the elite lunch table.

                It is a sociological condition of the human condition that in each group there will evolve a leader or an oligarchy of leadership.  And so it was in the group.  The oligarchy of three decided that Mollie O’Neil needed to be tested to make sure she would yield to the eminent standards of the group.  Superiority and subordination must be established.

                It was explained to Mollie O’Neil that it really wasn’t stealing for they were a law abiding group and they must preserve the integrity of their reputation.  It was suggested she look at it as a harmless initiation.  Besides the old folks in the old green stucco house would not miss it, their garden was huge and they would not be able to tell that one item was missing.  The oligarchy of three emphasized, “They would never know it was gone.”  It was merely a gesture of her loyalty and bravery.  “Just grab one,” she was told, “as proof, then join the party,” and she would become a solid member for life.

                She paused in the shadow of a tree in front of the last house on the lane before it made its right turn.  The porch light of the house was shining ominously and she could hear faint, unintelligible sounds from the TV.  The moon was positioned to soon fall behind the tall Chinese Elm trees.  She studied it. “How beautiful, how large, how bright,” looking to see if she could make out the face of the man in the moon.  But her imagination was uncooperative.  She knew the gray spots were mountains, craters and other geographical anomalies.  

                The garden, Mollie O’Neil’s objective, was a half block away.  The lane, the turn, the garden was fully illuminated by the moon as there were no bushes, no trees, no shadows.  If a car was to come up the lane she would be caught, and she didn’t know if she could endure the humiliation and embarrassment.   

                At that moment, the verve induced by the group’s flattery and doting began to diminish.   She asked herself, “What on earth am I doing here?  How could I have been talked into such a stupid, foolish dare?

                She glanced back towards Redwood Road.  The lane was black with shadows.  She looked ahead, and could see the bend in the lane clearly and she could see the garden off in the distance.   “Why should I go on?” she asked herself.  “What is so great about being part of the group that I should be doing this stupid thing?”

                Then part of her brain, the unconscious part said, “Because you lack the courage.”  The thought startled her.  Was it her unconscious speaking, that little small voice that at times disagrees with the conscious mind?  “No,” she retaliated, “it’s the idea that I’ve allowed myself to be manipulated.  If I continue on this silly errand knowing I’m being manipulated I will be giving up my free will.”  But that wee small voice spoke up once again.  “Or is it because you are afraid to go out in the moonlight?”

                Suddenly she found herself walking deliberately up the lane towards the bend, her back straight, her head held high.  She was surprised, her actions were impulsive – there was no conscious impetus.  It was as if there was something in her brain other than that wee small voice that made the decision.  The decision made, she resolved to go through with the dare, but it was no longer an act of conformity or a test of pluck.  The resolve was her own, she was not doing this to ingratiate acceptance to the group.

                As she turned right at the bend in the lane she noticed her shadow stretching out to her right.  The shadow was comforting, she was not alone.   Her thoughts turned to her best friend, Marge, who she had neglected since being seduced by the group.  Since the sixth grade they had been like sisters.  They had no secrets.  Jealousy and envy was nonexistent.   They had always been there for each other.  Although Marge was just as attractive as Mollie O’Neil, she had not been chosen by the group.  And Mollie could tell by Marge’s expression and demeanor that she did not approve of the group but because she was a good friend, she didn’t voice her feelings.

                Mollie came to the five strand barbed wire fence that protected the garden from stray cows and horses that were always getting loose.  Over the years the tension on the strands had weakened.  She carefully eased through the third and forth strand.

                Quickly surveying the garden she spotted the row of interest.  Seconds later she was feeling through the leaves and tendrils.  Her hand brushed against what she was after, in fact she felt more than one, some larger than others.  She could have harvested a handful, even a hat full, but she only took one.  One was proof enough.

                It had been easy, except for the guilt she felt.  Even though she only took one it did not abrogate the trespass or the theft, even though the item’s worth would be just a tiny fraction of a penny.  But worst of all was the deception – the sneaking, the stealth of it all. 

                Anxious to end the charade she was not careful and a barb on the fourth stand snagged fast to the sweater she was wearing.  Bent over, one leg inside and the other outside the fence, she was caught in an inexplicable predicament.  And to make matters worse she could see the headlights of a car blinking between the branches of the trees and bushes coming up the lane.  And if that was not enough a dog at the old folks’ daughter’s house started barking.  She knew the dog, a Beagle named Lola, who was notorious for barking at anyone, friend or stranger who strolled the lane.

                She panicked.  While holding the third strand down with her right hand she attempted to reach up with her left hand and unhook her sweater.  She couldn’t reach the snag with her left hand so she reversed arms, reaching up with her right hand.  It was awkward going and her elbow and fingers rebelled.  Stretching until the muscles in her arm felt like they would tear from the bone, her index finger and thumb touched the snag.  But the impossible position would not allow the finger and thumb to work as intended.  In fact the snag seemed to be even more secure and all the time the car coming up the lane was getting closer and closer.  When it made the turn the headlights would spotlight her in all her bent-over glory.

                This was her favorite, most expensive sweater.  She had wanted to look her best.  The only alternative was to bolt, tearing her beautiful sweater.  But by the time she decided to sacrifice the sweater the car was too close.  Even if she bolted there was not time enough to hide.  She would still be caught in the open.  If seen running it would be a positive sign of guilt.  Resigned to humiliation and hopelessness, she covered her face and eyes with her hands and waited for the inevitable.

                To her surprise and great relief the car did not turn on the bend but continued straight pulling into the driveway of the old folks’ daughter’s house, where that irascible Lola was still barking.  When her breathing returned to normal she backed into the garden side of the fence and the snag on the barb released as nice as pie. 

                This time she was careful, taking her time.   Seconds later she was hot-footing it down the lane as the moon slide behind the high Chinese Elm trees.  The shadows had now completely enveloped her and as she neared Redwood Road Lola’s incessant barking faded in the darkness.

                Even before she knocked on the door she could hear the rock music and muffled sounds of revelry.   

                As the oligarchy of three escorted her to the bedroom where they had privacy, in glancing at the partiers Mollie did not like what she saw, heard and smelled.  Boys and girls were making out on the sofa.  The metallic music was way too loud and grated like a rasp against her natural, pacific nature.  A few were dancing; at least they thought they were dancing.  But it looked to Mollie like inebriated, pirouetted gyrations.  And the smell, peppery and smoky.  She had never before been around marijuana, but instantly, she discerned correctly that the smell was what the “cool guys” called pot.  She didn’t let on how shocked she was.  Here was the elite, the style setters, the privileged, the envied, who were so cool that the rules established for the plebeian class did not apply to them.

                “So how did it go?”  Mollie was asked. 

                “It went very well,” she replied confidently.  “I found the cool night air and that gorgeous full moon exhilarating and mind cleansing.”

                The oligarchy of three gave her a puzzled look.  The coolest of the three then said, “Well, where is it” holding out a hand.

                Mollie reached into the pocket of her jeans, then dropped into the outstretched hand a single, purple grape. 

                “What?” said the leader.  “When we said one we meant one cluster.”

                A mischievous smile spread across Mollie’s face.  She had never felt more in control or enlightened.  “This is a grape of wrath.  It only takes one.  I did not want to vex the whole cluster.”

                “Huh!” the oligarchy of three said in unison.

                Still smiling confidently she said, “Steinbeck.  Read Steinbeck,” then after saying, “Goodnight,” she left them there, their mouths gaping open.

                Monday, Mollie O’Neil had lunch with Marge.