It happened this way.
For several months, I had been doing some car trading. I
wound up with some money in the bank and a 1960 vintage Ford sedan in perfect
condition. An elderly lady’s son sold it to me after she had gotten too old to
drive it to the bank a couple of times a month. I had a buyer all ready for it
in Pine Bluff, an elderly lady who just needed to drive to town a couple of
times a month for groceries and to the doctor. Did I mention the car was in perfect
condition?
It was, save for the need of a new universal joint and replacement
of a headlight. My brother and a neighbor replaced the universal joint, and I
was engaged in replacing the “headlight of destiny” when it happened, right there
on the parking lot of our apartment building.
I had the hood up on the car and had just finished the job
when movement to my right caught my eye. Two figures had left the building and
were walking toward a car. One was Vernell, the sister of my next-door neighbor, Rita. I
didn’t know the other one. They were dressed like young women of that time
dressed who, as they would say, were “lookin’ for adventure, and whatever comes
our way.”
As for me, it was a warm early spring Friday evening and I
wore a “Join the Navy and Ride the Waves” T-shirt and a pair of dirty jeans. My
hair had grown a couple of inches since I had parted ways with the military, and
my hands were greasy. I stared.
When they saw me looking, they ceased walking and began to “sashay.”
If you don’t know what that means, find a true Southern girl and let her show
you. For now, just understand that it has a stupefying effect on men,
especially Southern men with weak minds.
I nodded. Vernell nodded. The apparition with her looked at
me for a second, then shook the long red hair that fell down her back. She didn’t
speak, but the look she gave me spoke with such thunder that it drowned out the
sounds of the traffic on Cantrell.
It said, “Just what the hell are you looking at?” She sashayed
on by me.
I stood there like a man who had just had 15 flashbulbs go
off in his face at one time.
She wasn’t tall, but she seemed to have the power and
tension of spring steel wound inside her as she walked away. The long hair had framed
an oval face, the kind that cameras love. The face was soft and ruddy, more
Celtic than Mediterranean. She would have been the perfect choice for a “Visit Ireland”
magazine ad. Shapely legs flapped the hems of a dark blue dress that was set
off with a bow. It swayed with a music that only she was hearing. I was sure that
her walk was a copyrighted achievement.
I dropped a heavy screwdriver on a toe sticking from a “flip-flop.”
I didn’t feel it. Somehow, I managed to close the hood, gather my tools and
walk back to the apartment.
Rita stood in the doorway of her apartment, fully dressed
for a change, well, except for buttoning her blouse. We exchanged nods. “Not going out of a Friday night?” she said. "Even I have a date."
“Maybe later.” I started to my door, but stopped. “Could I
ask you something?”
“Her name is Brenda Cole and she is from Lonoke, teaches
school there.”
She had been watching all the time.
“Her daddy is a farmer, and she’s an only child, a real “Daddy’s
Girl.” They say she can drive a tractor like a man, even has one of her own—a
tractor that is.”
I nodded.
“On some days, she’s engaged to a basketball coach,” she
said.
My face must have given me away. I never was a good poker
player.
Then Rita smiled at me and winked. “But on other days, she’s
not.” She gave what seemed like a little mocking laugh and closed her door.
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| With teachers like this, could I have possibly done better? |
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