CHAPTER THREE
Book-buyers aren’t attracted, by and large,
by the literary merits of a novel;
book-buyers want a good story to take with them on the airplane, something that will first fascinate them,
then pull them in and keep them turning the pages.
This happens, I think, when readers recognize the people in a book, their behaviors, their surroundings, and their talk.
When the reader hears strong echoes of his or her own life
and beliefs, he or she is apt to become more invested in the story
Excerpted from page 106 of On Writing, by Stephen King
Only one event was ever looked forward to more than my entry into Central High, and would not take place until my sixteenth birthday; but the school year began, and things started happening fast. Ned had already celebrated his sixteenth, passed the tests required for him to receive his North Carolina Driver's License; and on that same day the full use of his own car which was a '48 Dodge that was already out of the ordinary because it was blue (instead of black); an older two door coupe, with something hanging on the backside of its inside rear view mirror proving it was not his dad's car.
For only a small contribution toward the cost of gas; Ned would leave home in a gallop, always in a hurry, with Babe (who lived across the street from him), who had probably been waiting in the car for him ten minutes by then. Next they crossed Plaza Road to pick me up, and after stopping for Meatfinger we continued our trek to school; for some reason usually arriving just in the nick of time after a hair raising, harum-scarum ride through yellow lights, careening around corners, while all along weaving in and out of traffic around old codgers who were poking along so slowly on their ride to work it was hard to imagine they would pick up any speed once they arrived.
Since Babe was already in the car each morning he rode 'shotgun' on our rides to school; but for rides home, and all other outings, that very real honor went to the person in the bunch who called 'shotgun' first each time. It was clearly a small victory of the day when you were the first to say that magic word, as it meant you got to sit by the window in the right front seat, as it was a position second only to the driver in importance; and all ties were decided by the driver who could from time to time show partiality to the person in the crowd he wanted to show favoritism too. If there were five or six persons making that trip, the person who called 'pistol' first got to ride in the middle of the front seat, as it was, in theory at least, the third most important seat in the car.
While most friends, for the most part, were kids from church like Roy, Jack, Joe, Ned, Babe and Meatfinger; it was in the 10th grade when I was enrolled in Mrs Bridgman's Biology Class, and it was there I was befriended by several guys who seemed to have been friends from their earlier school days. Bill, Roger, Nicky, and me, formed a cadre of our own that prevailed throughout the '55-'56 school year; as they had included me in on the debate confounding them as to which was the better outboard motor, an Evinrude, or a Mercury (Buddy Baker, a neighbor and friend from the far side of Plaza Hills, made sure everybody knew his dad, Buck Baker, had been sponsored his early years as a Nascar Driver by Kiekhaefer, the man who founded Mercury motors - which was the extent of what I knew about outboard motors). We had somehow wrangled being allowed to huddle during those lab periods, where we were required to perform post-mortems on dead frogs and 15 inch worms; and seeing as how no one in our group aspired to go into the medical field, debates during lab sessions about which motor was better often took precedence over what the innards of a frog or a giant worm looked like.
Never failed, as Mrs Bridgman fluttered around the room administering smelling salts to one or two girls at a time, who had swooned from the smell of formaldehyde, and the sight of what was laying on the tray in front of her; the guys continued to argue about the engines because each of their dads owned a boat with one or the other engine as its power source. Never doubting for an instant this issue would have to be resolved (I could smell another boat ride a-comin'), I continued to side with Bill, making sides equal seeing as how no one seemed to mind, because his dad's boat was the only one that had an Evinrude, and already sitting in the water at The Red Fez Club just southeast of Buster Boyd Bridge on the North Carolina side of the river.
The cajoling continued until finally plans were made to show the Evinrude's worth in a grueling test of power and speed on Lake Wylie. Bill's dad was a Shriner, and as well, a member of The Red Fez Club, where his boat was moored along with three others in the first open ended boathouse on the left as one walked down the catwalk. Being the model child he was, Bill was allowed the use of the boat that next Saturday which was reachable in the back seat of his mom's station wagon, as I had been invited along (Bill also gave me my first sip of something with alcohol in it, as his dad had a bottle of Crème-de-Menthe in his whiskey cabinet in their dining room).
That first Saturday trip finally came, and at last it was my turn to try my skill at water skiing. Just southeast of Buster Boyd Bridge, I jumped into the water with Bill's ski's and life jacket securely fastened. The rope tightened, the 'ready' call acknowledged; and I braced myself remembering the vow I had made so many years before just on the other side of the bridge.
I had concerns for years after that my athletic skills were maybe not up to par, because I finally lost count how many times it was taking for me to stand on the water; and I could not imagine why learning to water ski was turning into such a gargantuan task. Looking back, the real problem was the weight of the four people in the 13' or 14' aluminum boat; and my ineptitude, taxed, strained and stretched the limits of the fifteen horsepower motor time and time again (the motor was only ten horsepower short of the largest Evinrude and Mercury motors available at the time, and Evinrude had just announced they were coming out with The BIG TWIN, which was going to have a whopping thirty horsepower). I remember clearly having to plead for one last chance before giving someone else their turn to ski; and holding on for all I was worth, my tenacity finally won out, as I accomplished the first goal I had ever set for myself.
Bill's mom delivered us to the river those weekends when the weather was fair on Friday afternoons that fall, and most times there were as many as four or five of us. On one of those first Friday nights someone came up with the idea of pilfering the kindly colored cook's old car and go to Joyner's, at the bridge, for a hamburger; and as expected, Bill did not veto the plan.
It was an old Ford. One of the 40's models with the rounded hood, cooter shell, and fenders that was the body style before the streamlined '49 model was introduced; and one that was so old it had an on-off switch which would enable the car to be started if the ignition had not been locked; as a recon run proved it had not.
The burgers could not have tasted any better; so instead of taking the direct route back to the club we each took our turn driving the old cream colored Ford in pell-mell fashion along the back country roads around the lake, many times coming within only a foot or two of a possum, bridge or a tree, and certain disaster.
As we approached the club we would cut the ignition and lights a couple hundred feet up the hill, and coast into the spot where the car was always parked; and stealthily steal away back to the boat house to turn in and sleep flawlessly in our sleeping bags until the Saturday dawn; at which time we rousted out again to fish the cove The Red Fez Club was harbored in.
On one Friday night in particular that fall an older brother of one of our gang had driven out to visit; and before long, everyone agreed it was time to go to Joyner's for a burger. I begged off this night, on the pretense another Crappie or Catfish might by chance swim upon one of the baited hooks we always had dangling in the water. An agreement was made to bring me a burger on the return trip, and everyone left leaving me alone in the boat house. The trips to the lake were clearly becoming the most enjoyable and memorable times of my life, and within only a couple trips I had become proficient enough to drop one ski, and could by now ski as well as any one of my companions. I had also been allowed to pilot Bill's dad's boat many times, and was as adept, careful and skillful as anyone else; and truly grateful for the chance to do so.
In reality though, Bill's dad's boat was a thirteen or fourteen foot aluminum fishing boat that was so light extra care had to always be taken anytime anyone stepped into the boat. If there were any more than two persons in the boat, everyone, except the pilot, would always have to step or lean as far forward as they could, every time it was throttled up in order to plane off quicker, because of the speed prop being run on the boat (which meant it was slow to build momentum, or pull skiers out of the water, but cruised along as a reasonable good clip once the boat had planed).
There was not, as you might expect, a windshield to deflect a chill wind or spray that was inevitably caused each time a wave was cut by the craft; and positioning seat cushions were more trouble than they were worth to soften the bumps that occurred every time the boat cut through a wave either. There was, however, a steering wheel located on an aluminum support located some three feet or so in front of the transom where the motor was securely bolted; and just to the right of the steering wheel was where the gear shift lever was located which meant the person pulling the cranking rope could have easy access to the throttle as the motors of those days were notoriously contrary, and many times took some doing to keep them running until the motors had warmed up a bit, and the motor smoothed out.
I must surely appear to be an ingrate by now - but that is not the point. The reason I had ducked out on making the burger run was because I had imagined many times what it would be like to pilot the beautifully polished wood boat that was berthed only two slips up from where Bills dad's boat was secured.
It was a magnificent boat of some earlier vintage that had been meticulously maintained, was as pretty as any outboard boat I ever saw in the movies, or anywhere; and as luck would have it, had an Evinrude motor on it, which meant it could be run with our spare can of fuel. After priming the bulb, and turning the key, in that it had an electric starter; the giant twenty-five horsepower motor jolted, lurched uncontrollably as Frankenstein did as he was being brought back to life, may have backfired, and then bumped again: but started.
I had driven Bill's dad's boat many times on our four, or five, or six outings to the lake on Friday afternoon's after Central High had let out; and Saturday's were best of all as Bill's mom did not come for us until later in the afternoon. I can still remember sitting there for a minute or two trying to decide whether to really purloin the boat or not; but as the motor smoothed out my resolve became real, for I had yearned to pilot such a handsome boat. Disconnecting its tie lines, I pushed her out under an open sky, and waited patiently for her to swing about before easing the gear selector forward.
My ride began slowly under a cloudless sky; and I only began to throttle up as I left the cove entering the main channel of Catawba River. There was a brilliant moon out that night, and the lake was mirror smooth as the boat continued to build momentum. In no time at all the boat gained sufficient speed to plane and I became captivated by the sheer excitement of being able to guide at will the path my pirated craft was to take. The boat bounced only slightly as I passed over the mid points of my figure 8's, and threw great sprays of water as I made some high speed turns; but choosing to not bounce over my own waves any longer I sped toward Buster Boyd Bridge being careful to not go very far northwest after passing under the bridge so the guys could not spot me if they were on Joyner's dock for some reason.
It finally dawned on me to drive to the end of Boyd's Cove, which was the cove we skied in if there was much traffic during the day, as it was the first large cove past the cove The Red Fez Club was in; as it was all part of Buster Boyd's property Duke Power had to buy in order to build the dam some 30 years before.
For some reason I was enjoying my ride even more being alone that night; as I was undeniably having the best time of my life. Heading out of Boyd's Cove I began swerving and maneuvering the boat on a whim knowing it was probably going to be a very long time before I would be able to captain such a handsome boat at will again.
After my exhilarating ride I returned to the boat house only to find everyone had already returned; and was astonished to see Bill turn white as he delivered a diatribe telling me what the circumstances would surely be if anyone ever reported my prank to his dad. Bill gave me a tough time for an hour or two, but accepted my apology and my promise to refill the gas tank; and all was well again.
In reality, the other friends and me laughed the episode off, as we had not seen me stealing a boat to be any worse than being party to stealing the cook's old Ford; making the risk therefore worthwhile, because I remember to this day the joy I received taking my ride that night; and loving every minute of it.
My diversions were few, but on other Friday nights after the chill of winter set in, I would team with a neighborhood chum to go to Cavalaris Skating Rink on the corner of East Morehead and McDowell Streets. On one Friday night in particular we were waiting for his dad to finish his dinner before delivering us when a new singer, heretofore unknown, sang his heart out on The Jimmy and Tommy Dorsey show. The man sang "You ain't nothin' but a hound dog, crockin' all the time, …", with a panache neither one of us had ever heard or seen before, and while exaggerated, was well done. My enthusiasm was short lived, however, in that I never could understand how wildly many of the girls in my class were going to react to Elvis Aron Presley; but then my dad was probably just as dismayed and disconcerted about the way the women of his day reacted to 'Ole Blue Eyes'.
The real reason I enjoyed those Friday night outings so much was because my friend had a cousin who had already graduated high school, worked a job somewhere requiring his skills until eleven o'clock each weeknight, but who met us at the rink after work. My friend's cousin had bought a cherry '52 Chevy coupe which meant we could be selective to whom we were going to give rides home on those nights. As regular as clockwork, the three of us, plus any ladies who had been offered a ride home, would pile into that car, with me in the driver's seat; and most times, while my buddies were swapping saliva with the lady they had chosen to transport home that evening, I would gladly traverse the back city streets of Charlotte driving that beautiful Chevrolet.
It was about that time, on a church youth group outing to the same rink, that Meatfinger offered me a cigarette; and I smoked that Lucky Strike that afternoon, in the men's room, with my buddies, for the very first time without feeling the need to look around corners, or hide. Being caught in the men's room at Central High would have resulted in immediate suspension; but seeing as how smoking was alright Bill Holden, Humphrey Bogart, John Wayne, and my dad; it was alright with me. Little did I know then the habit would linger for twenty eight years.
By now my all time favorite actor had appeared in Sunset Blvd., Picnic, Stalag 17, and Bridges at Toko-Ri; four performances in four movies as memorable as anyone ever made (when The Bridge on the River Kwai was released in 1957, it became an immediate extraordinary success). In each movie Bill Holden gave an unforgettable, stellar performance as a maverick, always a loner, up against impossible odds; as his acting in these movies has never failed to intrigue me, every time I have ever seen them. In later years there were any number of favorites; but in the end, about the only movies I pay to see anymore are by Scorsese or the Coen Brothers.
The Hollywood phenom at the time was a young man named James Dean, whose signature hand salute had become the greeting of the day, which was accomplished by dropping his outstretched arm by his side, and rotating his wrist front to rear, while his palm and outstretched fingers were parallel with the floor (almost the complete antithesis of the high five). While it was nowhere near as tough as trying to emulate Michael Jackson's Moon Walk in later years (as every real fan of each has tried), no one I ever saw could do it quite as well as the master's themselves.
By the time I had completed my freshman year at Central High, Jimmy Dean had completed three movies in not much more than a year, each of which had won critical acclaim by every account; only to have to suffer Jimmy dying tragically before Giant hit the big screen, crashing his Porsche on a California Highway in the early fall of 1955.
East of Eden was too dark for me to enjoy much back then, because I had my own problems to contend with (was not sure I had seen the movie until many years later when each scene on the screen became hauntingly familiar). Rebel Without a Cause, was a phenomenal success, among my peers, as many of the movie scene's were recounted over and over by many friends. But for me, Jimmy Dean's performance left me cold, when barely ten minutes into the movie he laments to his parents, "You're tearing me apart".
Now try to dig this. Here is a peer presumably not many months my senior, who is driving a '50 Mercury Coupe (could have been a '49), which was conclusively 'the car of choice' among young men our age (at least for those guys who could not talk their old man into springing for a new Chevrolet Bel Air, or Ford Fairlane 500 hardtop coupes', as some of my classmates did); was not having to jerk sodas 12 hours to buy a Gant shirt, or 32 hours to buy a pair of Bass Weejun loafers; had the prettiest girl in school hanging off him like he was Elvis Presley (a part played by Natalie Wood); a friend who would follow him into hell had he chosen to go (the Sal Mineo role); and a family membership in the country club where he could have perfected his golf game, or tennis game, any day, anytime, and every time, the mood struck him. And this poor bastard was being 'torn apart' because, "She (his mom) eats him (his dad) alive, and he takes it"; Oh, and by the way, his dad's name in the movie was Frank. Give me a break!
I had for many years been one of the drug store's most faithful customers; and had never failed to read the first copy of Mad Magazine within hours after it hit the shelf. Doc Dorton chided me, more than once over the years, for outburst of laughter that could be heard all over the store as I sat on the sofa in the front of the store where customers waiting for the prescriptions to be filled could relax; but never once did Doc Dorton berate me for not buying the magazine, that cost a quarter at the time.
Every once in a while Doc would trade off a milk shake for me to deliver a prescription somewhere close by on my bicycle; and I had begun asking for a job working the soda fountain during my junior high school days. Sometime during the latter part of my tenth grade school year my chance finally came to 'jerk sodas'; and I gladly accepted the offer which allowed me to give up my recently acquired morning newspaper route carrying The Charlotte Observer.
A carton of cokes, at the time, only came in six ounce bottles, but sold for a quarter and Pepsi's cost a quarter, too; the same price as a quart of milk; and a loaf of bread went for sixteen cents. A package of Lucky Strike's, or Camels, cost eighteen cents; while Pall Mall's, other king sized cigarettes, as well as the new filter tipped cigarettes, were priced at twenty cents.
I never took one red penny from the till, never stole a package of Winston's; but as well, never once felt a pang of guilt for sampling incalculable spoons full of ice cream (sundae's were served with hefty sized throw-away wood spoons), or slugging untold gallons of fountain Coca-Cola at will (and as everyone knows, the original formula included a dash of cocaine in each serving). Remembering my benefactors from earlier days, my job gave me the opportunity to enhance personal friendships, and acknowledge newer friends, with an extra heavy hand when a nickel or dime cone of ice cream was ordered.
I enjoyed my job more and more almost everyday; and got to the place I began telling Doc Dorton my goal was to attend Pharmacy School at The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. While my intentions were all for the right reasons, my motive was to be able to wear a pharmacist's smock; and after six months or so Doc agreed to allow me to do so. Better yet, Doc often extended kind words for the job I was doing, and I had begun thinking of myself as a salesman of sorts, already.
There had not been any doctors, lawyers, or Indian Chiefs on our block (although there was an architect for a year or two); and without fail it had been the family's of men who were salesmen who had prospered and moved up, and off our block into homes in nicer developments where they would have at least two bathrooms and three or four bedrooms, so the sisters and brothers did not have to share a bedroom. One of our most esteemed neighbors had been a man who lived a few doors up on the other side of the street, who was a prince of a man, as his presence, as well as that of his pretty wife; made every neighborhood gathering an event. I clearly remember the glum attitude mom had as she told dad and me at dinner one night she had learned Claude and Frances had bought another home, and were going to be moving from Plaza Hills.
It was a real sad occasion, but trying in my own way to help them prepare for their move; I waited until the time was right, and cornered my favorite neighbor one afternoon to ask him what a person had to do to become a salesman. His answer stoked the fire that burns in me until this very day, because with a resounding heartfelt laugh my adult friend leaned over, looked me in the eye, and without a moment's pause told me in only a mouthful of words that, 'if I wanted to be a salesman, I was already a salesman; and if that was what I wanted to be, I was going to be a great salesman'.
Remembering his very words, I had already begun to strive to succeed in my job at the drug store, knowing that my chance was surely going to come someday.
It was not that I did not want to be a better student; it was just I never imagined school being my thing. Our family finances were always stretched to the limit as there was never any extra money. Had already figured out to be a doctor, lawyer, or Indian Chief, one would have to have a college degree; and since funds for that would never be available I never took many books home, or strived for good grades, as I could read, write, spell, and do simple math easy enough.
While it might have been much more fun to watch the Monday night episode of "I Love Lucy", or the "Hallmark Hall of Fame" Presentations; my job was enabling me to buy Gant Shirts with the cloth loops on the back, Weejun Loafers that quickly became the shoe the in crowd wore, water repellant London Fog Jackets with their distinctive collars, and sweaters (as my mom bought my khakis, jeans, socks and skivvies at F W Woolworth's Five & Dime).
Not only that, but the thought of having dinner at home night after night, was not anything I found appealing in any way; as they surely were going to have nothing more appetizing that very night than their damned old can of corn, their damned old can of some kind of beans, or their damned old can of beets (my stomach just turned to think of eating beets, one of my dad's all time favorites). If dad had done the honors that night he would likely as not have boiled some cabbage, or another vegetable of some sort that was as bland and tasteless; and the only thing certain was there would not be an entrée of pork chops or red meat (that is, if you can still agree hot dogs are not red meat).
Indeed, I was proud of the job I was doing Monday thru Thursday nights (Doc Dorton gave me Friday Night's off as there was usually something going on at school), and from 8:30 to 6:00 on Saturday's; as it remained a source of satisfaction and contentment through my high school years (as well as the latter half of my freshman year in college).
That next summer I turned sixteen, and never before, or since, have I looked forward to a birthday like I did that one. The appointment to take the test's for my driver's license had been made from the earliest possible date the N C State Highway Patrol would allow me to make it. The only thing certain is my appointment that Tuesday morning had been preset for the earliest possible time our state highway patrol would begin the process for the day; and standing tall at the allotted time, I passed both the written, and the road test, with flying colors.
Dad allowed me to deliver him to work that beautiful summer day, as he was an ice cream truck route driver for Foremost Dairies by then. I immediately proceeded to the nearest auto supply house where I bought an inexpensive trailer hitch that would fit the rear bumper of our '51 Pontiac Chieftain, and bolted it on myself.
Arriving only a few minutes later at Roger's house we hooked his dad's boat to my dad's car, as his dad had agreed his son could have the use of their family boat for such an auspicious occasion as my sixteenth. We then headed for Nicky's house, missing our old friend Bill, as his dad had been promoted by the national company he was working for, and had moved with his family to Atlanta at the end of the school term.
Having filled the boat's two gas tanks with fuel at a bait and tackle shop on York Road; Roger and Nicky opted to ride the last dozen miles, give or take, to the landing area just on the South Carolina side of Buster Boyd Bridge where we could launch the boat. I have just shuddered, once again, to remember driving as fast as 80 miles an hour a portion of those last few miles; gambling their lives on the frailty of a five dollar trailer hitch I had bolted on myself.
We spent the remainder of the day riding and skiing, much of the time over the very area of the lake where and I had taken my first boat ride, and where I had made myself my first promise, to someday know how to water ski. It was on that same area of the lake I made myself another vow that day; I was going to begin saving to buy a car.
One of our country's best selling authors at the time lived and worked in Charlotte, and just a block or so further up Elizabeth Avenue from where Central High School stood, the late Harry Golden was almost single handedly writing, and publishing, The Carolina Israelite, a newspaper.
Mr Golden had been receiving much national acclaim for the wit and wisdom contained in his many books, the most recent of which were making 'Best Seller Lists'. Mr Golden, had by now, written several books using essays to make his point on any and every subject that came to mind. Sometimes his essays were short, and sometimes his comments were as useless as the subject matter with which he was dealing; but other essays dealt with subjects that were topical at the time, and many times caused one to think objectively, or subjectively, as the case may be, about the subject he had written about: as each gave his reader the benefit of an additional point of view.
A local television newscaster was interviewing Charlotte's esteemed author one evening, and the topic the show was dealing with was The Civil Right's Movement, and how it was affecting the lives of all of us for the present, and what it would mean in the years to come.
Mr Golden set the stage by explaining that everywhere in America, black folk could only sit in front of the rear exit door of the bus, so long as they understood they would have to give their seat up when white folk got on the bus and did not have a place to sit. What happened, that fateful prior December evening in Montgomery, Alabama; was a black seamstress lady, tired from having to put in a full day's work herself, had refused to give up her seat enabling a white man to sit: and at the next stop, or two, she was physically removed from the bus; and arrested. In that one fleeting moment of courage, she had unknowingly created the spark that ignited the torch that black men and women were now taking up all over our country. Mrs Rosa Parks cause was now being championed by a black preacher from Montgomery, Alabama, as Martin Luther King, Jr., was a man capable of delivering powerful oratory.
Harry Golden went on to explain it had been the television set, now available to almost everyone, that had caused the black man to unite for their common cause. It had been the TV set that was showing the white man, and seemingly all white men, enjoying the fruits of their labor, driving good looking cars, living in their own homes with apparently no shortage of wholesome foot to eat; while the black man was still having to scratch and grovel to eke out his meager existence, that was sub par by any standard the white man lived by.
It was incomprehensible to me how such a simple explanation could answer so many questions; but it was all beginning to make some sense now.
The Japanese had surrendered out of fear the Atomic Bomb would have obliterated every major metropolitan area of their country. The black man was now beginning to dream things yet to come from watching TV; and who would ever have imagined the people of the United Soviet Socialist Republic would ever foster the same dream for equality; for maybe the same reasons. But then, who would ever have imagined, back then, that terrorists the world over, could do their dirty deeds earlier in the day, and then see the damage they had done on the news, in their living rooms, that evening. Ye gads, what an incentive that must be.
My personal hopes and dreams had been incubated as a little boy at the movies, and were now being perpetuated by the television set, allowing my mind to run free as a young man, in the belief the only limitations set upon myself would be self imposed; that is, as long as I understood women were sacrosanct creatures, who ironically, by definition, had to be regarded with, " …. undeserved immunity to questioning or attack".
Indeed. Harry Golden's reasoning was good enough for me.
Time continued to drag by, but during the my lunch break one day in the Spring of my second year one of my buddies told the group I was sitting with, about a car he had seen he was trying to put the money together to buy. As it happens, his description of the car was so well done I decided I had to see for myself if the car was really as pretty as he had described it. Excusing myself I walked the block or so up Elizabeth Avenue toward town where it was said the car was usually parked; and my heart almost stopped.
It was a '49 Chevrolet Coupe with the torpedo shaped slanted rear that had been 'shaved' front and rear, removing its hood ornament and rear handle lock assembly, as entry into the trunk could only now be accomplished by pulling a handle that had been installed through the package tray just inside the car's rear window. The car had been lowered ever so slightly, had back up lights, a rear speaker for its radio, fender skirts, and Oldsmobile wheel covers in that full size Chevrolet's wheel covers were a rarity at the time because most Chevy buyers were conservative, and usually settled for hub caps, rarely spending the extra money for trim rings. The seats had new plaid seat covers with black borders, but featured multi-colored inserts that accented it red and black dash board. The finish of the car was a brilliant black, and there was not a flaw on the car, anywhere. The best part yet was its owner was said to have a fetish for his car, and had maintained its appearance, and running gear to the highest standards.
The word was its owner finished school the same time I did, and as the bell rang that day, I must have surely looked like a nerd for running as fast as I could through the hallways in order to be able to arrive back at the place where the car was parked. Predictably, in only a matter of minutes, the car's owner came strolling up.
There was not much to talk about. A senior had a chance to buy a '50 Olds Coupe that was being held for him until he could sell his Chevy. He wasted no time in explaining there were already a dozen guys who were trying to put the money together to buy it; and that it quite naturally was going to go to the first man who came up with the money. I explained I had already saved $140, and that if he would bring the car to my house around seven o'clock or so this evening I was sure we could settle the matter tonight.
Doc gave me the night off, which gave me a chance to practice my story, because Dad had already turned me down twice when I wanted to buy the car of my dreams (the first of which was a beat up old Hudson Convertible). My folks arrived home a little after 6:00P, as they always did, unless it was a Friday night when mom had to work til 9:00; and at the agreed upon time, my car and its current owner arrived. Dad's skepticism immediately waned, as he was decidedly impressed with the car; and we drove it to Tucker's Esso where we could look it over a little better under the lights, and check it over with Mr Tucker's help. Dad agreed the car was a real value, and as my new found friend departed, he was told I would phone within the hour.
Dad sent me to the drug store for something or the other; suggesting I take my time, as he and mom needed to have a chat that could take a few minutes. Upon my return I found he and mom still sitting on the sofa, which was an excellent omen. My joy was almost too much to bear in that my parents agreed to kick in the other $60; on the condition I give mom a ride to work each morning on my way to school.
We paid the two hundred dollars the next night at the Harley Davidson dealership on West Morehead Street, where we had the title properly signed over, and a notary seal appended; and the vision of my first car is as clear in my memory as the keyboard of my computer is now.
Except for a few days at Myrtle Beach, when I was a kid, our family outings were always to visit friends or kin only a ride of an hour or so away; but my parents announced plans were being made for us to take our first real vacation that summer. We were going to travel through Memphis, and then continue on to San Antonio to visit my mom's kid brother, and his wife, where he was stationed at Kelly Air Force Base (Uncle Paul had not re-upped in the Marines some years before, but had opted for a less stressful life in the U S Air Force). On our way back to North Carolina, we were going to detour through Miami to spend some time with the aunt and uncle who had pretty much raised me my first five years; where we could maybe spend a little time on a beach with them and my cousins.
Time and money were sufficient to make the trip, and my parents agreed to allow me to invite my closest friend at the time to go along, a classmate named Don. Upon arriving in Memphis, one of my dad's kid sisters (an aunt I never knew I had), took us on an outing to Graceland where the driveway entry already featured the gate that shows up to this day. I was dumbstruck when writing an earlier draft to recall that day and night we spent in Memphis; because there is absolutely no recall of what my dad's sister's name was, as her name never came up again at home, or mention ever made again she ever existed.
After spending only one day and night in Memphis, we traveled on to San Antonio. We had not been there but a few days when tragedy befell my family; my dad suffered his first heart attack. He had collapsed in the bath room one morning, and was taken to lie in bed. Mom insisted I put my dad's socks and shoes on while she finished dressing him; and to stand with her and my dear dad during the insufferably long wait for the ambulance to arrive. In my whole life, I had never known such sadness, for I knew I would never forget the uncertain look in my dad's eyes as he laid on the bed that morning; as we worried the color might not ever return to his face.
Dad survived, thank God; and had me believe his attack was nothing more than a warning, in that he now had an enlarged heart as a result of working sunup to sundown, summer and winter alike, as an ice cream route salesman delivering for two different dairies. The days of waiting for the doctor's permission to make our trip home were not much fun either; but within three weeks, or so, permission was finally given on the condition my dad not drive, and our days rides kept to a reasonable amount of time and distance. Our concern was the summer heat, in that our old Pontiac was not air conditioned, as most cars were not until the mid 60's; and we should be okay if dad did not try to overdo it (the first Ford with factory air, including dash outlets was in '65, while the '62 Chevy had dash a/c vents).
In the end, our one and only family vacation ended with each of us wishing it had never come to pass in the first place.
At school registration in the fall of 1957 I arrived early, and stood across the street from the main entrance in anticipation of what might be. My concern was that only the year before Governor Shivers had ordered a contingent of The Texas Rangers into Mansfield, Texas; in an effort to manage the angry townspeople there who were protesting the integration of the state's segregated school system. Seems the local folk were adamant about, " …. it is still in the Texas Constitution that Negroes can't go to school with whites", as an article on the front page of the Saturday, September 1, 1956, The New York TImes had read.
Much worse yet, only the year before, the furor had taken place in Clinton, Tennessee, as, "Tennessee National Guardsmen with full combat equipment took command of law enforcement today in this east Tennessee mountain town where mob violence had followed integration of Negro's into the high school. …. A vanguard of seven tanks with 76-mm. guns and three armored personnel carriers with .50-caliber machine guns led 633 armed guardsmen past the courthouse square at 12:35 PM", is the way it had read on the front page of the Labor Day Monday issue of The New York Times. On that same night two men were reported shot in rioting, and two guardsmen were attacked, is the way it read on that following Tuesday morning's front page of that same newspaper.
Not long before the scheduled time for our school day to begin several cars stopped on Elizabeth Avenue, and disgorged about a dozen passengers who immediately went into a huddle. In the midst of the group was a young colored man named Gustevas Roberts, who was being escorted to school that day by members of the local chapter of The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP); as they were there to see Gus was properly enrolled in what had heretofore been a completely segregated school system in North Carolina.
With little fanfare the entourage made its way up about a dozen or so steps to the main front entrance door of Central High through only a handful of hecklers and genre of our school whose granddaddies, and great granddaddies, had no doubt had their own special way of commemorating such auspicious occasions in the past by wearing something more formal, and white. Like their relatives of old, the total contribution of the welcoming committee, in making ours a better community to live in, could easily have been inscribed, with room to spare, on a square of toilet paper.
For the most part it was an uneventful day, as I am unaware of any significant national coverage of the event; but history was made that day in Charlotte, North Carolina.
I passed Gus everyday that year in the downstairs hall between one of our class periods; and came to realize from that very first day he always walked the hall next to the wall of lockers meaning there was one less flank for him to watch out for, as he had no sidekick to a cover a flank. For months after that school year began Gus' face was puffy, and many times one eye or the other was nearly swollen shut; but Gus was always there, and I admired him greatly.
The first love of my life was a girl named Dotty, who was a classmate in Mrs Smith's first grade class, and I saw her every weekend at church as well; but her folks moved to another city and our romance lapsed while we were still in grade school, and before we had a chance to kiss. A girl named Charlotte had inadvertently caused me to postpone, for many months, my first kissy facey session by rejecting my amorous moves one Saturday afternoon, when I was in junior high, during a matinee of High Noon at the Carolina Theater.
My old friend Ned, realizing I had been doing without, arranged a date for me with a coed who had been found to be obliging on a prior double date he had had (and since her presumed husband was always a bit huskier than me, she remains nameless). Ned minced no words telling me what had to be done. Once we park, I was to put my arm around her, and try to kiss her, because the odds were she was going to respond, if she liked me as much as the other fellow he had double dated with. That said, I stumbled through his directions; and crouched in the back seat of Ned's old blue '48 Dodge Coupe, at the Albemarle Road Drive In Theater, she and me steamed, and then caused the rear windows to ice up one cold night (and thanks to her, I could finally understand now why the kids in the back rows of The Plaza Saturday Morning Kiddy Shows would smooch through a good movie).
The reality was I had no love life at all; but my job at the drug store provided me with the money to buy and maintain a good car, as well as some of the clothes that were popular among my peers; and that somehow made it all worth while even though I had to work until ten o'clock Monday thru Thursday Nights. It was, however, during my second year at Central High I met, and began dating a girl we will call Carol; because over the years, there has been a time, or two, or three; that a pretty girl named Carol was the love interest in my life.
Carol did not live very far away, so just as sure as Friday or Saturday night came around I would pick her up as close to seven o'clock as I could. On Friday nights there was small talk from time to time; but on Saturday night, her dad never once said any more than two words as Matt, Kitty, Doc and Chester, had transported him, mind and body, to the town where that Episode of "Gunsmoke" was taking place. Carol's parents were, nonetheless, kind and gentle people, who raised their daughter so her values would be the same as theirs. Accordingly, she was not given permission to go to a drive-in theater; and we never, ever, did (try as I might to talk her into it).
Most date nights the standard fare was a movie, if there was not anything special going on at school. There were lots of good movies back then; but of all the tear jerker's we ever saw, the only movie she ever cried in was Walt Disney's Ole Yeller, a story about a dog. It was just another example of not being able to understand anything about women, and simply another condition I was going to - have to allow to exist - and therefore did, as tears rolled down her face.
Babe Maloy's, and Ebb & Lib's, were the popular drive in hamburger joints at the time, where we usually had a burger and Coke after our night out; so long as there was enough time to do so and still get Carol home before the witching hour of midnight rolled around.
The adult advisors at Plaza Presbyterian church were the C F McCleeses', who were so revered by all the girls and boys in our high school youth group everyone spoke to them as Ma Mac and Daddy Mac. The church Sunday night Youth Group meetings were so popular all my young friends there, as well as myself, told other school chums about our meetings; and classmate friends from all over town eventually wound up at every Sunday night meeting. On any Friday or Saturday night anyone who did not have a date, or plans, knew they would always be welcome to go to their home on Mecklenburg Avenue for a Coke and pop corn; where they would be joined later by the guys who had delivered their dates home, and watch the movie on the TV late show that night.
In those days before readily available drugs, the pill, and bed-hopping parents; our problems, too, seemed immense, and Mrs Mac never failed to spot any slight change in attitude. If it prevailed for any more than a week or so, Mrs Mac would find some way to have a little chat with you, which many times took no more five minutes, to try to find out what was going on in your life; as me and some of my peers had already found out trying to have discussions like this with their mom and dad would be fruitless. Mrs Mac, on the other hand was a grand lady, and her grandmotherly demeanor (which she already was), and warm smile, quickly broke down any resistance one might have allowing her to get right to the point. If it was one of those totally inconsequential matters, as most were, she would let out a heart rending laugh, to your sometimes shock, and explain the problem would pass if you will just give it another couple days or weeks. If the problem had any validity, she would treat it as such, and offer suggestions and support until the matter was resolved.
Our church group remained a source of contentment and joy for everyone who participated; and from our very midst more than one told of having heard their call.
Early that Spring Carol and me had gone to a basketball game at school one night, and on the way home while I was trying to steal another kiss, my car veered off the road and knocked a telephone pole down in front of Hawthorne Junior High School on Belmont Avenue; and before I knew what had happened my car stopped at the bottom of the embankment at the foot of the hill, with its right front fender bashed in. Neither Carol nor me had a scratch or bruise, but in order to protect her honor, we agreed I would tell the police the story I had been adjusting my radio, and simply ran off the road.
It simply never once occurred to me how serious this matter was; as there was not a question dealing with matters like this on the state exam to get my license. My story did not vary one iota even after being asked more than once by one of the policeman who had answered the call if a dog, or cat, had not run out in front of me. My story did not change, and as my car was being towed away, the police informed me they were going to have to arrest me on charges of Reckless Driving; which meant they were going to have to take me downtown to be booked and held until my parents could post bail for me. The police took Carol and me to deliver her home; and then took me to the police station on East Fourth Street.
I was allowed the customary phone call to my parents to explain what had happened, and was told they would be there just as soon as they could raise the one hundred dollar bail money, as the stores were closed where they could have had any hope of cashing a check in that amount. The desk sergeant put everything I had in my pockets in a manila envelope, and completed the paper work pertaining to my charge. My plea of wanting to wait for my folks downstairs naturally went unheeded; even after explaining Ricky Selvey (whose dad had maybe already been promoted to Chief of Police in Charlotte by that time), was a classmate, and great friend of mine (which indeed he was).
I was then led upstairs to the hoosegow, through a maze of doors; and will never forget stepping into my cell, coming to a halt, about the same time the clang of the door closing behind me began ringing interminably in my mind, as though each iron bar seemed to have its own tone as though they reverberated in unison, a death knell of some sort. Next the sound of the turnkey's footsteps died out down the hall, when the sound of the door closing behind him began a second chorus of sorts.
The dirge continued, as the silence quickly way to the moans, snoring, and cries from nightmares of other inmates; and for a moment I was horror stricken, before realizing my folks were this very minute in the process of coming to pick me up.
I stood there for a long time before turning to face the cell door, but when realizing how tense I was, thought to sit on the iron bunk that was part of the brick and mortar of the wall. Unfolding the mattress laying on it I was shocked to realize, that in my wildest dreams, I could never have imagined the infinite variety of species of roaches and bugs scurrying to find some cover elsewhere; as there were surely some there Mrs Bridgman never told us about in our biology class. The only other place to sit was porcelain, and having no urge just then, I decided to stand and wait. Never thought much about that part of the episode again until many years later when I saw Tommy Lee Jones, in his brilliant, unforgettable portrayal of "The Amazing Howard Hughes", standing at his cell door: Waiting: To be picked up by persons unknown from jail in that little town in Louisiana after running out of fuel on that fateful plane ride the day before.
James E (Bill) Walker, a past solicitor in one of our local court systems, for a fee of $200, saved me from having to do any jail time, or losing my license to drive. What actually happened on the day I was to appear in court was James E (Bill) Walker, told my dad and me we could go home, as he handled the matter, in the privacy of the judge's chambers. But much worse yet, I had no choice but to sell my beautiful Chevrolet for $60 salvage to raise what part of his fee I could come up with.
I had never really been sick a day in my life; but the loss of my car had filled me with remorse: And for the first time in my life depression and lethargy truly overwhelmed me.
Easter was coming; and Carol went to New York on her senior trip. The destruction of my car, and the stark realization, for the first time, I was not going to graduate with my class filled me with an inconsolable sadness. A few days before Easter, I wrote my parents a note telling them I was taking a trip to Florida with an old river buddy; put my best clothes in an old suitcase, and left with only a few dollars in my pocket to thumb my way south: and a new life.
In a day or so I arrived in Tampa (the destination of the last long ride I had received), and found my way to the bus station where I had assumed I could get away with sleeping in the lobby on the pretense I was waiting for a bus to take to the Garden of Eden the next day; but was soon awakened by a policeman, wanting to know if I had a bus ticket, or was a vagrant, who then allowed me leave.
An upscale hotel close by had some sofas in a darkened salon that I sneaked in behind, only to be caught there as well. A kind lady, and another employee, told me of a boarding house close by where I could rent a clean comfortable room; and I did so that coming morning. Within only another day or two I found a job working in a Walgreen Drug Agency (could have been a Rexall Drug Store for all I remember now) doing the only thing I knew how to do besides deliver newspapers.
Did not take but a few weeks to see at the same rate of savings I was making, it would take some four and a half years before I would be able to buy another good car; so after admitting 'running away' was the dumbest damn thing I had ever done, I phoned my folks to let them know I was on my way home. There were worse things than not having a car, but at the very least I now knew I could provide for myself; and that was somehow gratifying.
Turning my dad down on his offer to drive to Florida to pick me up, I thumbed rides to get back to Charlotte, arriving one morning just after sunup; and even though I probably lost twenty or twenty five pounds in the process, I was awfully glad to be home. Mom had apparently been waiting for me in the living room, because the moment she heard the front louvered screen door begin to creak she rushed to me, and sobbed, while she stood there with her arms around me; but there was no crying on my part.
Without saying many words mom began fixing me a huge breakfast as I showered; and after cleaning up, my dad called me into his and mom's dimly lit bedroom, where he exclaimed that even though I should not expect him to become too emotional: he was nonetheless glad I was home. It suited me just fine that my homecoming did not get too mushy, as I had already planned to crash after breakfast.
What should have been my senior high graduating class voted old friends Don as being "Best Looking"; Tommy Wellons the "Best Dressed"; and both Nicky and Carol "Wittiest", as our school annual depicted him trying to cram her into a trash can: and I was proud to claim the friendship of them all.
The next year was my senior year, and in retrospect, not any better, or worse, than any other year. My closest friends during that '58-'59 school year were Joe, Ricky, Phil, and a recent emigrate from California known by all as Newk. Most classmates were surprised to see me return that year, but readily accepted my explanation I was doing some 'post graduate' work.
The truth of the matter was I was terribly bored with Central High, as the reality was there was never any doubt but that I was going to have to continue to provide for myself because there was never any extra money at home. My job with Doc Dorton was allowing me to do a pretty good job of that, as I was as presentable as most of my classmates, in that kids back then went to great lengths to dress neatly, taking great pride in their appearance; as classmates wearing t-shirts, baggy pants and sporting shaggy or uncombed hair was by far the exception, rather than the rule. My hope to go to college did not even factor in at the beginning of that school year, because there would never be money available for me to do so.
There were some buddies (not necessarily heretofore mentioned), who had been gang-banging a girl who went to another school; and she and me had met a time or two. During a phone conversation one night she offered me the chance to have a go at it, at a time of my own choosing should my curiosity ever rise to the occasion. Another buddy (not necessarily heretofore mentioned), whom I had imagined would probably know about these things, and me were chatting during our lunch period one day, and his enthusiasm after me telling him of the standing offer I had from a willing girl was all the encouragement I needed.
We took my dad's Pontiac, and being careful to park where her parent's could presumably not see my buddy in the car should they be inclined to look, I gingerly knocked on our date's front door. Naturally, she had to introduce me to her folk's, and as we departed her mom implored us to 'be good', which caused a cringe to flash across my face as we walked to the car.
Did not take but a minute to realize my buddy and me had no idea where to park on her side of town; but seeing as how my buddy 'would know about these things', he prodded our date for information about some place we could go to park. Within only a matter of minutes we were driving the loneliest, deserted dead end dirt road you ever saw; and after turning the car around at its end the chatter died down.
I was not a drinker back then, but my buddy had a time or two; meaning the occasion called for that feat of daring as well (I thought I was going to get sick on my stomach before I finished that can of beer). Then there was more bad news, as the announcement was made by our girl that she was having her period, but still willing. It was then that I remembered in Coach Miller's general health classes at Piedmont Junior High that ooze would be present that would surely leave tell-tale stains; and I announced our mission was going to have to be aborted. My buddy was not quite so willing to give up, asking if there was anything in the trunk of the car that could be used to protect the seat; and it dawned on me there was an old Charlotte Observer carrier bag there, wasting no time to retrieve it.
With my buddy now in the back seat, I moved the front seat back as far as it would go, and timidly shucked my trousers and skivvies, leaving them heaped in the floorboard, not going to the trouble to take my socks off. After doing my best to situate the carrier bag under her, I tried to mount, being careful to try not to lay heavily on her. At the time my lanky frame was within only a fraction of being six feet long; and thinking back now, I likened the exercise taking place to the contortions Harry Houdini would had to have gone through to extricate himself from a nine cubic foot chest ten feet under water in the chilly Hudson River.
My movements were to no avail, as the comments coming from the back seat, a time or two, had caused me to have to pause in order to finish laughing before struggling on. Try as I might, I could not achieve penetration, even after all the times I had dreamed of doing so; and threw in the towel not really giving a damn that I lose my virginity on that lonely, deserted dead end dirt road that night.
It was now my buddy's turn to get into the front seat, and except for a new player the discourse remained the same until he too, soon gave up. It was then I mentioned there was still an old cot in the trunk that had been there since my family had taken our Texas vacation; and if everyone was still game we make one last try.
It was a bright moonlit night, and rejuvenated, I agreed to give it one last shot as I still had the honor (a pun on who gets to take the first shot on the next tee); and a full five minutes must have passed before I again gave up again. For some reason I felt obliged to make sure no one was approaching from the upper end of the road, as my buddy did not seem to be doing any better than I had. After struggling a bit he seemed to find his destiny, and after only another minute or two of synchronized gyrations, both he and our girl exploded in laughter, commemorating the end of his quest for his first piece of ass.
The challenge was again extended for me to try my luck one more time; and as I put my knee on the corner of the cot that corner of the cot caved in; which was all she wrote, as there was no other effort made by me.
We left everything as it was that night; a broken down cot complete with a blood stained paper carrier's bag, a presumably soggy sanitary napkin, and a couple empty beer cans at the end of a dead end dirt country road. The irony of it is that site is almost certainly in the middle of a real classy neighborhood by now.
My first, last, and only, go at a gang-bang ended in total failure; but as we drove away I vowed silently, that very night, to never, ever, again, go on a gang-bang; and I have not.
The year dragged on, and that Spring, as was the custom, the GGS Club took their perennial annual outing to Myrtle Beach for Mother's Day weekend (Girls Good Sports Club, whose members wore sweat shirts with CHARLOTTE spelled out in bold letters across the front of them, which means if their arms were folded in front of them, many times all you could read was HARLOT, forgive me GGSC, Girls)! The girls always rented 'The Ship' in its entirety, which meant the beach cottage was also the gathering place for the guys who had been lucky enough to arrange a date for that very special weekend of our school year.
That year one of my best friends (who shall remain nameless for the obvious reasons) and me decided it was time we partake of the grape, and find out once and for all what it was like to get a little drunk, in that we would both be in college the next year; so it seemed fitting to get blasted at least once before we left high school. Our procurement of beer and a bottle of vodka had already been stashed for a day or two, and as we left school that Friday afternoon, we iced the beer down in an old metal bucket as we headed out U S Highway 74 with Newk chauffeuring us in his dad's '53 Cadillac. Newk later was to attain a certain amount of notoriety for being able to chug-a-lug beer faster than anyone else in his fraternity; but my unnamed friend and me were novices, and by the time we made it to the South Carolina state line we were harmonizing in song and making toasts, to anything, and anyone. Story has it, we had begun to get a little boisterous as well, so in an effort to tone us down, Joe suggested we try to chug-a-lug some vodka; on a dare, of course, to see if we could. So help me, I can still remember the lights going out after taking my turn with the vodka bottle.
My colleague in crime was said to have put the metal bucket (styrofoam coolers were not available yet) on my head, as I lay in the back seat floorboard, and tapped out one of the hit tunes of the day. Word also has it all the girls and guys at 'The Ship' saw us carried up the steps of our motel, which was directly across the street from the motel where the girls were staying, draped over Newk's shoulder; but then no one seemed to care anyway.
Graduation came and Joe was voted 'Most Popular' in that he was a cheerleader, as well as the President of the Student Body. Phil was voted 'Best Looking'; while Newk, Ricky, and me were content to graduate; and I had a peaceful feeling by being able to believe Sally had told me true, and that I was beaten out by only a few votes for 'Most Cheerful' by Henry.
© 2010 Ken Wilson