Labor Day 1969

She was wearing my favorite jacket when I picked her up, the black denim one with the dolphin embroidered on the back. He was an impossible shade of blue, leaping out of a multicolored ocean under a psychedelic sunset. Black t-shirt, bell bottoms, white sneakers, she looked even younger than her sixteen years. Her long brown hair was tied in a pony tail that snaked over her left shoulder and down to her breast. She had a red cotton bandana around her neck like an outlaw's daughter. We walked to the subway holding hands, both hands in the pocket of my jacket. There was more of a chill than usual for a Labor Day morning.

At the pier we boarded the old sidewheeler steamboat and laughed at all the people running forward to try to be the first person in the bow. We strolled aft to the fantail and up to the third deck, where the sun was warming the folding chairs. An ocean liner passed downstream in the river channel and her wake set the steamboat to rocking gently.

At the stroke of ten the captain sounded the steam whistle and edged out of the slip. "Whistle" is such an inadequate word for that brass throated guardian angel, warning all other ships out of our path. Seconds later the echo bounced off the skyscrapers in midtown and rolled back to us, now out in the channel.

She lay her head on my shoulder and we shared a cigarette as the towns rolled by along the river shore. The sun tried to be warm, but there was no mistaking the color of autumn in its beams. We buttoned our jackets against the September cool.

I kissed her under the Bear Mountain Bridge, as the boat heeled hard to starboard to return to the city. While the boat lay broadside to the wash a stray wave slapped her and she rolled hard, jamming the girl's teeth into my gum. The kiss tasted of blood but we kissed anyway. The want was that strong.

Back at the dock that evening the old steamer eased gratefully into her slip. We stepped from ship to shore as the captain rang down "Finished With Engines" on the telegraph. We stood waiting to cross Twelfth Avenue, amazed at how short the days had become.

It was already dark when I brought her home.