By Avis A Townsend
In August, 1962, my friend Cindy and I spent the day at the
annual county fair. Although she lived next door, she'd spent the
night at my house so we could start the day together.
We got up early that morning, excited about seeing the animals,
playing the games, and maybe meeting some of the farmer boys from
other school districts. After scarfing down a breakfast of corn flakes
and milk, forced on us by my mother, we headed for the drug store on
Main Street, where we bought bus tickets for a quarter and waited for
the Greyhound to pull up in front and pick us up.
The bus took passengers to the city every hour on the hour, stopping
at each hamlet along the way. The ritual was always the same – Don the
bus driver would pull up in front of Stierley's Emporium, open the big
double doors, and stand at the entrance, punching tickets for whoever
climbed aboard. Sometimes he was early and he took time to grab a
ginger ale at the soda fountain. This particular day he was right on
time, so he punched our tickets and we were off.
The fairgrounds were halfway between our small town and the city, only
about five miles, but Cindy and I didn't want to walk there and get
overheated and sweaty. Fifteen-year-old girls had to look their best,
just in case.
It was especially hot that year, and it hadn't rained in weeks. The
fairgrounds were dusty and we began to perspire, beads of sweat
dripping down our faces. By mid-afternoon we were dirty and droopy,
and there were only so many cows you could look at or baby piglets to
smile over. It was so hot that day that the chickens began to get
sick, and their owners, concerned 4-H'ers, dunked them in pails of
cool water to keep them alive.
We watched the day's horse show until it ended, and then we went to
the Milk Bar and got burgers and milkshakes. By four o'clock we'd
spent all our money and were exhausted, and we knew we had to walk the
five miles home. We hadn't bought round-trip tickets, wanting to save
our quarters for the fair, and at nine in the morning you think you
can walk home later with no problem. When the time comes, however,
it's a different story.
We began to walk, each wishing one of us had saved a dime so we could
have called one of our parents to come and get us. In the beginning
the walking was easy, because it was all down hill. After about two
miles, however, the sun beat down on us and we were burning up. Our
once-crisp long-sleeved white blouses became limp dirt-streaked
shirts, and our seersucker Jamaica shorts felt like they were made out
of wool.
As we walked along, we began hearing music blaring from a car radio,
getting louder every second. It didn't take long for the car to pull
up next to us. My mouth dropped open in awe. There it was – my
favorite car – a white '58 Chevy convertible driven by a cool-looking
guy with a D.A. haircut that hadn't become messed up at all, even
though the top was down. I noticed a pack of Camels rolled up inside
his T-shirt sleeve. He looked old – like he was about 18.
"You girls need a ride?" he asked.
"Yes!" I said, but at the same time Cindy was saying "No."
I turned to her. "Come on, it's hot, and we only have a few miles to
go. And look at this car!"
Always the realist, Cindy said, "Never take rides with strangers. You
never know what could happen."
I finally won her over. "What could happen? There's two of us and one
of him. How could anything happen? If you don't want to go, that's
fine, but I'm going."
I opened the door and climbed into the back seat. I knew it was
breezier in the back seat after riding many times in my cousin's
convertible. My hair was wrecked anyway, so I didn't care.
Cindy followed my lead, plopping onto the back seat. She glared at me
with teeth clenched. "You make me so mad!"
I laughed. She sounded funny talking through her teeth. She was such a
worrier. As far as I was concerned, another adventure had begun.
"How far you going?" the guy asked.
"Just to Newfane. You can drop us off at Stierley's," I said.
The words had barely come out of my mouth when he gunned the engine
and we were off. Within seconds we were racing along, and when I
looked over the guy's shoulder I saw that the speedometer read
ninety-five.
I took a quick peek at Cindy. I think she was praying. Or crying. It
was difficult to tell.
"I think you can slow down a little bit," I screamed in the guy's ear.
"What?" he yelled back over his shoulder.
"Slow down, we're going to die," Cindy screamed.
He laughed and kept on speeding.
"I told you this was a dumb idea," Cindy yelled at me. "We're going to
get killed. This guy is a maniac."
I have to admit I was more than a little scared myself, so I told him
to let us out at the next corner. I had to yell it twice before he
heard me.
"I thought you wanted to go to Stierley's," he shouted.
"We changed our minds. We'll cut cross lots. It's the same distance,"
I lied.
As he rounded the bend, we could see Castle's Dairy Bar ahead. It was
on the corner right outside of town.
He slammed his foot on the brake, and the car fishtailed as it slowed
down.
Cindy jumped out quickly. Her lower lip was trembling.
"Thanks," I said cheerily.
"Hope I didn't scare the jeans off you girls," the guy said.
I closed the door. "No, it was fun."
I giggled, and then he was off in a shot, stones flying everywhere as
he sped away.
I turned to Cindy. "See? We're still alive," I said.
"Did you hear what he said? We should have him arrested," Cindy
shouted, her eyes black with rage.
"What? I didn't notice anything bad."
"He said we should lose our genes. That's disgusting. How dare he talk
about our bodies like that."
At first I was confused, and then I realized what she was saying. I
started to laugh. "He said jeans, like in blue jeans. Like scare the
pants off of us. Not our body genes. You are too much into biology.
Why would he say g-e-n-e's?" I asked, spelling it out.
Cindy didn't speak to me the rest of the way home. She called me the
next day to tell me she would never speak to me again. And she didn't
– not even twenty years later at our class reunion. It was the end of
a childhood friendship.
I never took a ride with another stranger, but I never gave Cindy the
satisfaction of knowing that.
Now and then I visit a classic car show, and the 58 Chevies still
bring back memories of a crazy and innocent time.
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A Townsend
