Sitting in her living room trying to figure out how to sneak that first kiss I had lost track of the time. Suddenly realizing it was well past my curfew, I began wondering how I was going to get home and more importantly what excuse I could use once there to explain why for the three millionth time, I had failed to return home, in time. The mind of a fifteen-ish-year-old boy or at least the mind of this one was a hodgepodge of conflicting emotions. I hadn’t kissed her yet. And as any young man would. I assured myself that any consequence, no matter how severe, would be worth it. If only I could sneak that kiss. I would be willing to live on the riverbank and eat weeds to "keep me alive,” If only...
“Well, its almost eleven Mike and my mom will be home in a little bit. So maybe you should take off shortly” she began. My heart sank. That was it, I had thought. I had walked six miles and sat through three and a half hours of family pictures all for nothing. Not even one lousy kiss. As I disappointedly began to formulate my retreat in hopes of at least salvaging another date, she matter-of-factly picked up the phone, walked across the room,and plopped right down on my lap. Then as my pulse quickened she nonchalantly dialed the phone, and began:
“Hello, is Bobby there? Hehe, hehe.
Hey Bobby, This is Patty. Hehe, hee.
(Who inconsequentially weighed well over three hundred pounds, wore an eye patch, and spoke with a slight lisp. (Not really, but this sentence is a blatant attempt to appease my lovely wife who became unexpectedly annoyed upon first reading my tale?)) But anyway, where was I…Oh yea. She continued:
“Didn’t you say you were going to Niles tonight? Great.
Do you think you could give my friend a ride when you do?
Cool thanks. We’ll see you soon. Hehe-hehe”
As she hung up the phone, she said, “There, your problems are solved. Bobby will be here in a couple of minutes to give you a ride home, which only gives us a few minutes”. She then slowly turned toward me with what even a gangly insecure teenager quickly understood to be (as my mother used to say) a come-hither look. Struggling to process this sudden turn of good fortune I was still dumbstruck as she then just as nonchalantly tilted her head, closed her eyes…, and proceeded to kiss me! My mind raced. You are the man! You a-r-e the sumpin-sumpin M-A-N! That was my first “real” kiss. And while proper etiquette prevents me from further scandalous detail. Suffice it to say, that the next twenty minutes did very little to dissuade me of my newfound “manliness”.
And my guess is that most of us still remember our first real kiss. Because while the details and particulars may fade and sometimes even grow, my first kiss (one that had it been left up to me, might never have happened) was awesome! In an instant, it bridged the chasm between adolescence and young adulthood. Years later I would find myself in an eerily similar situation, with yet another girl altogether (my soon to be wife), and because I was able to muster the courage to actually make my move then, however ham-fisted or awkward it might have been. It worked. And the rest is as they say history!
Bobby and his friend eventually did arrive. As did the time to say goodnight. (Living at the river was sounding more and more plausible). Maybe I could just camp-out in her yard, I thought. I was spared further embarrassment however when a few words of wisdom spoken by an old baseball coach years earlier suddenly came to mind. “Ford,” he had once barked! “If by some stroke of divine providence you ever actually do hit a go*#am home run, for Christ sake act like you’ve been there before!” After I confidently swept my “woman” into my spindly arms/guns and kissed her goodbye I slid into the back seat of her friend’s friend’s car, wondering what our children might look like, and where we would live, and if we would eventually be able to afford a 1963 Split Window Corvette? (What can I say; I was weak-kneed and a little OCD even back then.)
A few minutes later upon reaching the highway however, instead of heading for home, we turned in the opposite direction:
“We just need to run up to Galien real quick and then we will take you home”,
Patty’s friend Bobby, announced from the front seat.
“You ever meet Richard?” he asked, pointing to the driver.
“No what’s up?”
“Nothing but the price of gas” Richard smirked. (Clearly amused by his own cutting wit).
As Galien was only a few miles out of the way. I thought nothing of it and quickly went back to daydreaming, as we drove under a gentle rain, the oncoming headlights reflecting in colorful prisms on the windshield. A few minutes later I was startled back to reality by a question and the tone of the inquiry. Looking up, I saw Bobby looking over his shoulder as Richard, barely controlling his panic asked,
“Did they turn around…Did-they-turn-around!”
“Who,” I asked, by now fully engaged.
“The Cops! Did the f*^#ing cops turn around?”
“I can’t tell with the rain,” Bobby screamed!
“Well keep watching!”
I quickly began trying to asses the situation. I had known Bobby for all of three days. And why was this other guy, this Richard, so worried about the police? I was sure we had not been driving extremely fast, and the car seemed fine. Nevertheless, I soon found myself instinctively looking over my shoulder trying to identify headlights. All questions were answered almost simultaneously though as red, blue flashers erupted behind us, and the deep-throated growl of Richard’s four-barrel-carburetor Plymouth Fury III came to life in front of us, pushing me back into the seat.
“Hey” I began.
“Shut up!” RICHARD shot back.
“I’m not going back.”
“Going back to where?” I asked.
“Prison!”
Ohh... just peachy I thought. I am in a car with a convict with a death wish. What had only minutes earlier been one of the most exciting times of my young life had suddenly morphed into one of the most terrifying.
Barreling hell-bent down a rain sickened highway. I was surprised to see the police lights starting to fade. A combination of good old Mopar-Muscle and Police Intelligence I reasoned, as we were easily reaching speeds in excess of one-hundred-miles-per-hour. As the lights eventually dropped out of sight Richard the (I am not going back to prison dude) quickly exited the highway wheels screeching and sliding into a small subdivision of well-kept houses with me feverishly reciting the Lord’s Prayer in the back seat. As we careened around corners and through stop signs and yards suddenly, the road dead-ended ahead.
Richard then tried to turn while barely slowing down and managing to do neither, we then ran headlong into a tree. The impact stopping us in our tracks and throwing me violently against the front seat while our “Mad Man” driver then promptly jumped from the now inoperable car (its front end wrapped around a tree and steaming) and shot off across the yards disappearing into the night. Trying to get my bearings, I attempted to open the back door but it was jammed. I then carefully climbed over the front seat and exited the car through the driver’s door only to be confronted by the barrel of a very large pistol. As I did my best to comply with the officer's demands while simultaneously trying to control my most basic of bodily functions, I was swiftly handcuffed, and placed in the back of a squad car.
It turned out that “Richard” was wanted for parole violation. And, I found out later that he did, in fact, go back to prison. (Good riddance). Eventually, Bobby and I were cleared of any wrongdoing and released to the custody of our parents. As I rode home with my stepfather from the police station safe and sound once again. I fell asleep reflecting on what a day it had been. From my first kiss and young love to sheer panic and near death, I had flirted with an embarrassment of excitements that evening. Nevertheless, the one thought that filled my mind more than any other did as I drifted off to sleep, with the gentle rhythm of the windshield wipers and rain now keeping a much more rational beat was…you, Mr. Mike…YOU ARE THE MAN!! But then again what did I know I was just a Smuck!
Sitting in her living room trying to figure out how to sneak that first kiss I had lost track of the time. Suddenly realizing it was well past my curfew, I began wondering how I was going to get home and more importantly what excuse I could use once there to explain why for the three millionth time, I had failed to return home, in time. The mind of a fifteen-ish year-old boy or at least the mind of this one was a hodgepodge of conflicting emotions. I hadn’t kissed her yet. And as any red blooded young man would. I assured myself that any consequence, no matter how severe, would be worth it. If only I could sneak that kiss. I would be willing to live on the riverbank and eat weeds to "keep me alive,” If only...
“Well its almost eleven Mike and my mom will be home in a little bit. So maybe you should take off shortly” she began. My heart sank. That was it, I thought. I had walked six miles to Buchanan, and sat through three and a half hours of family pictures all for nothing. Not even one lousy kiss. As I disappointedly began to formulate my retreat in hopes of at least salvaging another date, she matter-of-factly picked up the phone, walked across the room, and plopped right down on my lap. Then as my pulse quickened nonchalantly dialed the phone, and began:
“Hello, is Bobby there? Hehe, hehe.
Hey Bobby, This is Patty. Hehe, hee.
(Who inconsequentially weighed well over three hundred pounds, wore an eye patch, and spoke with a slight lisp. (Not really, but this sentence is a blatant attempt to appease my lovely wife who became unexpectedly annoyed upon first reading my tale?)) But anyways, where was I…Oh yea. She continued:
“Didn’t you say you were going to Niles tonight? Great.
Do you think you could give my friend a ride when you do?
Cool thanks. We’ll see you soon. Hehe-hehe”
As she hung up the phone, she said, “There, your problems are solved. Bobby will be here in a couple of minutes to give you a ride home, which only gives us a few minutes”. She then slowly turned toward me with what even a gangly insecure teenager quickly understood to be (as my mother used to say) a come-hither look. Struggling to process this sudden turn of good fortune I was still dumbstruck as she then just as nonchalantly tilted her head, closed her eyes…, and proceeded to kiss me! My mind raced. You are the man! You a-r-e the sumpin-sumpin M-A-N! That was my first “real” kiss. And while proper etiquette prevents me from further scandalous detail. Suffice it to say, that the next twenty minutes did very little to dissuade me of my newfound “manliness”.
And my guess is that most of us still remember our first real kiss. Because while the details and particulars may fade and sometimes even grow, my first kiss (one that had it been left up to me, might never have happened) was awesome! In an instant, it bridged the chasm between adolescence and young adulthood. Years later I would find myself in an eerily similar situation, with yet another girl altogether (my soon to be wife), and because I was able to muster the courage to actually make my move then, however ham-fisted or awkward it might have been. It worked. And the rest is as they say history!
Bobby and his friend eventually did arrive. As did the time to say goodnight. (Living at the river was sounding more and more plausible). Maybe I could just camp-out in her yard, I thought. I was spared further embarrassment however when a few words of wisdom spoken by an old baseball coach years earlier suddenly came to mind. “Ford,” he had once barked! “If by some stroke of divine providence you ever actually do hit a damn homerun, for Christ sake act like you’ve been there before!” As I confidently swept my new “woman” into my spindly arms/guns and kissed her goodbye, I slid into the back seat of her friend’s friend’s car, wondering what our children might look like, and where we would live, and if we would eventually be able to afford a 1963 Split Window Corvette? (What can I say; I was weak kneed and a little OCD even back then.)
A few minutes later upon reaching the highway however, instead of heading for home we turned in the opposite direction:
“We just need to run up to Galien real quick and then we will take you home”,
Patty’s friend Bobby, announced from the front seat.
“You ever meet Richard?” he asked, pointing to the driver.
“No what’s up?”
“Nothing but the price of gas” Richard smirked. (Clearly amused by his own cutting wit).
As Galien was only a few miles out of the way. I thought nothing of it and quickly went back to day dreaming, as we drove under a gentle rain, the oncoming headlights reflecting in colorful prisms on the windshield. A few minutes later I was startled back to reality by a question, and the tone of the inquiry. Looking up, I saw Bobby looking over his shoulder as Richard, barely controlling his panic asked,
“Did they turn around…Did-they-turn-around!”
“Who” I asked, by now fully engaged.
“The Cops! Did the f*^#ing cops turn around?”
“I can’t tell with the rain,” Bobby screamed!
“Well keep watching!”
I quickly began trying to asses the situation. I had known Bobby for all of three days. And why was this other guy, this Richard, so worried about the police? I was sure we had not been driving extremely fast, and the car seemed fine. Nevertheless, I soon found myself instinctively looking over my shoulder trying to identify headlights. All questions were answered almost simultaneously though as red, blue flashers erupted behind us, and the deep-throated growl of Richard’s four-barrel-carbureted Plymouth Fury III came to life in front of us, pushing me back into the seat.
“Hey” I began.
“Shut up!” RICHARD shot back.
“I’m not going back.”
“Going back where?” I asked.
“Prison!”
Ohh... just peachy I thought. I am in a car with a convict with a death wish. What had only minutes earlier been one of the most exciting times of my young life had suddenly morphed into one of the most terrifying.
Barreling hell-bent down a rain slickened highway. I was surprised to see the police lights starting to fade. A combination of good old Mopar-Muscle and Police Intelligence I reasoned, as we were easily reaching speeds in excess of one-hundred-miles-per-hour. As the lights eventually dropped out of sight Richard the (I am not going back to prison dude) quickly exited the highway wheels screeching and sliding into a small subdivision of well-kept houses with me feverishly reciting the Lord’s Prayer in the back seat. As we careened around corners and through stop signs and yards suddenly, the road dead-ended ahead.
Richard then tried to turn while barely slowing down and managing to do neither, we then ran head long into a tree. The impact stopping us in our tracks and throwing me violently against the front seat while our “Mad Man” driver then promptly jumped from the now inoperable car (its front end wrapped around a tree and steaming) and shot off across the yards disappearing into the night. Trying to get my bearings, I attempted to open the back door but it was jammed. I then carefully climbed over the front seat and exited the car through the driver’s door only to be confronted by the barrel of a very large pistol. As I did my best to comply with the officers demands while simultaneously trying to control my most basic of bodily functions, I was swiftly handcuffed, and placed in the back of a squad car.
It turned out that “Richard” was wanted for parole violation. And, I found out later that he did in fact go back to prison. (Good riddance). Eventually, Bobby and I were cleared of any wrongdoing, and released to the custody of our parents. As I rode home with my stepfather from the police station safe and sound once again. I fell asleep reflecting on what a day it had been. From my first kiss and young love, to sheer panic and near death, I had flirted with an embarrassment of excitements that evening. Nevertheless, the one thought that filled my mind more than any other did as I drifted off to sleep, with the gentle rhythm of the windshield wipers and rain now keeping a much more rational beat was…you, Mr. Mike…YOU ARE THE MAN!! But then again what did I know I was just a Smuck!