The summer before my senior year of high school, I worked at McDonald's. As is the case at most McDonald's, I imagine, they employed a curious cast of characters. There was Rand, who used every break to go to his sun-faded Camaro and get high. He often fell asleep in the hidden spot beneath the pine tree behind the building. Sending a runner to wake him up if he did not return was an actual work assignment at the Campus West McDonald's. Another employee was amazingly named Joe Dice, or at least that is the name he applied for work under. In some ways, that feels like all that needs to be said about Joe, but in case you need a bit more. I got hired on the same day Joe did. The manager sent the four of us new hires to the bathroom to try on our magenta polyester pants. When Joe dropped his shorts, we all learned that young men named Joe Dice do not wear underwear. Thankfully, no patrons felt the need during those unexpected ninety seconds. And then there was Molly.

Molly was cool. Cool as in Molly had, what I was told by another employee, a Polish Mohawk. This meant the sides and back of her head were shaved, and the top was left really long and flew about unpredictably. Molly had this give-no-shits approach to things while still being both kind and competent—doubly so when put up against the likes of Rand and Joe Dice. Next to Molly, I was the squarest square in the mix—triply so when competing against the likes of Rand and Joe Dice. But this did not deter me from throwing all seventeen years of my flirting arsenal her way. If you asked me, or anyone watching the awkward dance, if a single one of my missiles hit her battleship, confidence would have been low.

One day at the end of her shift, she bid all of us unfortunates farewell, as she passed me, she handed me a slip of paper. It was a pulled bit of register tape and said in a fun scrawl, 'McMolly' with a phone number beneath. She flashed me those eyes and wordlessly continued her exit.

I didn't even have to knock on her home's door when I picked her up. Before I had time to get out of my '76 Volvo station wagon, she was striding down the sidewalk and slipped into the car. After a few pleasantries, she asked about the plan.

I thought we might get some food.

I just ate.

Oh, well, maybe we could see a movie.

A movie, really. That's what you want to do?

Uh. Well.

Didn't you say your parents were out of town?

Before I could answer, she reached into her voluminous shoulder tote and hefted out a large, clear bottle filled with an equally clear liquid. My entire knowledge of drinking could have fit in the red metal cap that poked out of Molly's clenched fist. I'd seen people at parties mixing drinks with orange juice or sodas. I asked if we should stop and get some of those things. Her reply, "if you want", stressing the word 'you'. Yes, I want. So we stopped at a store and I got a bag full of diluters.

I was struck by how quickly we settled in at my home's dining room table, the conversation flowing as easily as the pours from Molly's bottle. I tried multiple combinations from the bank of drinks I had neatly lined up on the table, looking for a blend that softened the liquid's bite. Molly tried exactly none of them, and I found no magic mix. In this setting, I was able to see Molly in much more detail. Less the rough polyester and fry vat sheen, she was beautiful. Zero makeup. No tan. Her skin was so light it seemed translucent. She was stunning. I remember wondering what she would look like with a more conventional haircut and attire, if it would make her more striking or maybe less so.

We were laughing and sharing embarrassing stories. If someone walked in on the two of us, they would have thought we were long-time pals, given our easy rapport. I repeatedly fought back the disbelief that I was out with Molly, a girl who had several guys at work, ten kinds of twisted up, including Rand and Joe Dice, but here she was with me.

My dog started barking in the backyard. From my chair, I pulled the sliding glass door open and called for her to come inside. No dog. More barking. I called again. Still no dog. Annoyed at the interruption, I walked onto the back deck and called her more emphatically, including a slap of my thigh. She came to the bottom of the deck's stairs but did not come up. She held her ground, now barking at me. Even more annoying. I took the first step down to collect her. I never touched the second tread because my body just pitched forward, and I fell down the wooden steps.

NEXT: Part 2 - The Morning(s) After