American Graffiti, Cowtown Style

Did I ever tell you about my best friend in high school? “Daisy” (only the names have been changed to protect the indecent) had more charm than six southern belles on Peachtree Street, large feather-lashed eyes that would put Cleo’s to shame, and teeth so white, Longfellow might write odes to. An eerie Inger Stevens clone, no male in seven counties could resist her and every female on three continents considered her a man-stealing hussy. We managed to stay friends because we had this unspoken rule: never date each other’s boyfriends, not even the cast-offs. I would have never stood a chance with her leftovers anyway, they all stayed ga-ga and under her spell, ere these long thirty plus years.

In the summertime you could find us on her rooftop, liberally greased with baby oil and iodine, and later, we would try rubbing alcohol. It had this wonderful cooling effect and turned your skin darker than beef jerky. Cheaper too, than the Hawaiian Tropics Coconut Oil liquid gold. Our sun worshipping ritual was quite involved. First, one must bathe, and shave the legs very close (never above the knee, of course. Our mothers warned us about that). Then, we shampooed our hair and drenched it in lemon juice. All the necessary items were assembled and dutifully hauled up onto the roof: an old quilt over which was thrown a black canvas tarp (black ABSORBS those rays), assorted skin lotions and tanning oils as mentioned above, a radio, a thermos of sweet iced tea, two pillows, two towels for wiping sweat, and a bag of chips or a stack of cookies. Daisy and I baked up there for several summers, and by all rights, should be poster children for skin cancer, but so far, she and I have come away unscathed by the stupidity of our youth (at least as far as sunbathing goes.)

In the fall of 1970, Daisy and I were freshmen and sophomores in high school respectively, and on the very day she acquired the all important milestone of youth, her Texas driver’s license, we had plans to attend the Sadie Hawkins dance at the high school. My Mama asked me more than once if Daisy was driving and I remember thinking how smooth my lies were: “Oh, right, Mother! I wouldn’t get in a car with her driving anyhow!” Who listens to their mother at 16? It was raining that night and the black highway asphalt reflected the streetlights like a strange mirror. Daisy had persuaded her beau of the month to let her drive his baby blue Cougar to the dance and also invited two couples to ride in the tiny, white-leathered back seat. With men, Daisy always got her way. Pulling away from the boyfriend’s father’s service station on Highway 377, Daisy pushed her little dainty foot all the way to the floor, the Cougar shot out onto the slick pavement, and began to dance all by itself in a sickening arch. Driver’s Ed had taught us the bare minimum and I vaguely recalled some special instructions about controlling a spin. Daisy must have been asleep during that class. The entire four-wheeled waltz couldn’t have lasted more than a minute or more, but it felt like a half-hour of slow motion. The Cougar did a three-sixty and came to rest headed south again, almost back to our point of entry onto the road. Only, we had stopped in the middle of a lane in front of on-coming traffic. I remember looking back over my shoulder hypnotized by the bright headlights bearing down on us. A hand reached up, grasped my head, and I was pulled down towards the floorboard by a quick-thinking boyfriend. Unfortunately, it also placed me in just the right posture to be flung dead center between the two front bucket seats (no one in the backseat had on seatbelts, of course). Imagine a double karate chop to the top of each shoulder with the force of about 45 mph. The driver (having just pulled out of a beer joint on the highway) who hit us in the rear of the Cougar was not hurt, and after everything was towed away, and the cops tricked into believing Daisy was the passenger and NOT the driver, we all went shakily onto dinner at Pizza Hut in another vehicle, amazed at our good fortune of pulling one over on the fuzz. No one mentioned the possibility of something more serious being luckily averted. We were invincible, remember? Halfway through the pepperoni and mushroom pizza, my entire "invincible" neck and shoulder area began to burn in earnest. Daisy was very apologetic and insisted I go on home. Of course, I couldn’t tell Mama that I had been in a wreck and that my chauffeur was none other than the infamous, Daisy, with her hours-old license. I believe I cooked up some story about a headache. After two aspirins and a hot shower, I tried miserably to find a comfortable position to sleep. Needless to say, I had to spill the beans in the morning and make a trek to the emergency room. The brace was a lovely addition to my wardrobe for six weeks. Which was the same amount of time my grounding lasted. I thought Mama would surely believe the broken bones were enough, but never count on pity from my Mama.

Tomorrow, I shall recant a Saturday drive with Daisy and another unsuspecting beau’s green Camero, with four-in-the-floor, and a Hurst shifter on a very steep-hilled street near a popular college campus. Oh, and if you pay attention, I might even tell you about the night of cruising the “Bowie” that ended like a bad Hollywood “B” teen flick.