Sunday Break

Taking off today to pick guitars. Read about the rest of our first date tomorrow. In the meantime, enjoy the Alien C. W.'s latest adventure.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 20 (Cont._2)

People ask how our first date went. It went fine. I struggled with where to go. I didn’t know if she cared much for movies. I had seen them all anyway. There were a couple of fancy restaurants in Little Rock back then, but I had learned my lesson about spending big sums of money on dates that didn’t work out. Anyway, she didn’t seem like a fancy restaurant sort of woman, or so I told myself.

Actually, I didn’t know which Brenda would open the door, the free-spirited redhead or the severe “wig-lady.” I was delighted when I saw the former. She was wearing a pant-suit outfit that showed off her … let’s just say it fit her nicely. It had a red pattern that fit both her complexion and the color of her hair perfectly. Appealing but not suggestive is how I would describe it, or seductive but not slutty.

In short, she was perfect.

I had wisely left the top on the sports car and settled for an Italian place near the intersection of Cantrell and Mississippi. It was cozy but not stifling, authentic but not flashy.

In short, it was perfect.

We started to get to know one another over dinner. As I had guessed, we shared a similar background, rural but not redneck, an upbringing moored in modesty but not poverty.

In short, we were a perfect match.

She had gone into teaching because, “I didn’t know girls from my background could do anything else.” She wasn’t overjoyed with her position in life. She neither cared for kids as a sub-species nor teaching as a profession. She wanted to know what urban planners did, and on the third try I convinced her it was an honorable and interesting profession. “I see,” she said, but I could tell she wasn’t totally convinced.

She was, as Rita had told me, an only child, having served a dual role as her mother’s only daughter and her daddy’s only son. Yes, she drove tractors, didn’t every one? She had relatives up North, a favorite uncle in St. Louis, and a favorite aunt in the Chicago area. She had spent summers there babysitting and partying with a cousin who lived in a city close to her aunt’s. That explained the cosmopolitan theme that ran through her country-girl demeanor.

She had never been married. A high school boyfriend had offered her the opportunity to go to work after graduation, put him through college, and be satisfied if he just “told her what it was like.” She evidently told him to go … let’s just say she turned him down.

If a man ever mistreated her … after she finished with him, her daddy would kick his carcass clean out of the State of Arkansas. She said this as simple matter of fact, not as a warning. I didn’t get the impression that she relied much on warnings or threats. She seemed more like a direct-action sort of person.

Did I mention that she could dig
her own fish bait? With a little
help from her favorite aunt.

In what seemed like a few minutes, the meals had disappeared and the check arrived. She excused herself while I paid. When she returned a voluptuous layer of lipstick augmented her already perfect face. Her ruddy Irish-like cheeks glowed with promise. Her smile said. "I'm ready to be entertained, but that's it, Jocko."

I struggled with what to do next. Then I looked across the street at a small building sitting in the middle of a supermarket parking lot. An idea struck me.

We would descend into what passed as “hippie-hell” in Little Rock, salty but not sleazy, underground but not secretive, entertaining but not expensive.

In short, it was the perfect place.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 20

“What’s with you?” someone asked at the office next morning. “You look like you just inherited a fortune.” I didn’t answer, just went about my work. We had received another round of funding for the Hope urban renewal project and it was time to start work on the design manual. To this end, the firm had arranged the temporary loan of a young architect from one of the state’s largest firms. It would provide a unique opportunity for me to benefit from high-quality professionalism.

His name was Charles Witsell, a native of Little Rock and a graduate of Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri. He would become one of the leading experts on the history of architecture in Little Rock. He was talented, brilliant, and generous, and I was going to have the opportunity to work with him.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Working with one of the state’s most brilliant young architects and getting ready for a date with one of the state’s most beautiful women. It couldn’t get much better than this.

Oh yes it could. I received another raise. I was headed for the big time. My head could hardly fit through the office door.

I took to having “lunch walks” with Charles Witsell. He would tell me about the buildings in Little Rock, their origin, and their architectural history. Once, when he had to go home at lunch for some reason, I rode with him. He and his wife, Becky, were restoring one of the most architecturally significant homes in the original section of Little Rock. Later, a photo of him and Becky at work on a staircase in the home would appear in an issue of National Geographic.

The Fredrick Hanger House:
The Witsells' original home.

That day, though, he treated me to a quick driving tour of the area known locally as “The Quapaw Quarter.” The highway department, following a never-ceasing strategy of sacrificing neighborhoods to the motorized vehicle whenever possible, had severed the area into two parts with Interstate 30. Much of the western portion remained and our trip proved instructive.

He demonstrated the impact of topography in the settlement patterns of the original city. They couldn’t afford total separation of the social classes in the olden days. Someone had to take care of the mansions and the folks who lived in them. Domestic workers had to live within walking distance of their employing families. Topography, along with social class were the founding principles of human settlement.

Higher was better in those days for two reasons, health and flooding. The higher elevations meant less exposure to unhealthy air and insects. The higher elevations also provided more protection from the periodic rampages of the Arkansas River and its nearby tributaries. So the rich lived the high life and the poor lived the low life. Some things never change.

We motored along street after street, observing clusters of magnificent homes. As the streets serving them would drop in elevation, the homes would drop in size. It was a good lesson in how cities settle, and it helped me understand my profession better.

It also germinated a seed inside me that would grow into a lasting preference for the old versus the new. I had no idea at the time that another person who loomed large in my life, already held those feelings. It might prove important.

Life is both funny and interconnected at times. I was about to find out to what degree.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 19 (Cont._3)

We pulled into the parking lot, Brenda and I, after our ride in my new car. She had agreed to go out with me. I think my heart was pounding. I still had presence of mind, though, to set a date for the coming Friday. She nodded, reached up, and undid the bun holding her hair. She let the long red strands fall and shook them loose.

“Call for me at seven,” she said. She opened the door, pivoted, and was gone. I stared into space for minute or two. I didn’t watch her walk away for I feared in doing so, I might faint. Then I got out and put the top back on the car. “What the hell have I gotten myself into?” I thought. Oh well.

Of course, my neighbor was just inside her screen door when I reached the building. She was in the process of putting on a pair of jeans and was halfway there as I approached. I stopped and looked the other way until I heard a snap and the sound of a zipper closing. Then I looked at her and nodded before she could ask. She did a couple of hops as she adjusted the jeans. “About damned time,” she said, wiggling back and forth to set the jeans firmly in place, as if they needed any help. “Her hair goes with the color of your car.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I noticed. Thanks for all your help.”

“What’s next?” she said.

“A date.”

“Well ain’t you the one? Where you taking her?”

“Any suggestions?”

“Maybe the Ritz Motel out on Asher Avenue? I had a first date that tried that on me once."

Was it time for some
serious contemplation?

I blushed and she laughed. “Seriously,” I said.

“Let me think on it,” she said. “Do you want to do the ‘serious young professional,’ the ‘hot-blooded veteran,’ or the ‘love-struck fool?’ routine?”

“Is there something in between all those?”

“You don’t understand much about women, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“She ain’t expecting you to take her to a meeting of the Poetry Appreciation Club,” She said. Then she turned and bent over to retrieve a pair of sandals. I didn’t think her jeans could possibly stand the strain, and expected them to fly into a hundred pieces. Standing once more without a catastrophe, she slipped into the sandals. “I’ve done about as much as I can,” she said. “You’re on your own now.” She stepped back and closed the door.

Standing there, it dawned on me. I had no idea how to impress a beautiful young woman on a date. It had been years since I had last ventured into the world of decency as far as women were concerned. Life was about to crash onto me like a rogue wave. Would it be “gunnels awash?” I felt like I was a dog that had just caught a hubcap.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 19 (Cont._2)

 The Redhead had agreed to ride in my new sports car. I was to wait. She disappeared up the stairs. I went to my apartment and brushed my teeth. I also brushed through my hair. It had grown since I separated from the Navy. Most people didn’t even suspect I had been a veteran, a good thing back in those days.

After the longest 20 minutes of my life, I went up to the apartment she shared with my neighbor’s sister. Speaking of whom, movement caught my eye from the parking lot and the two girls, returning from somewhere, had gotten out of their car, and were watching me. My neighbor gave me a “thumbs-up” sign. Her sister made a swooning motion like Rhett Butler sweeping Scarlett off her feet. I waved them away. They laughed and went to Rita’s apartment. I knocked on the door.

It opened, and there she stood, not smiling but not looking unhappy either. She wielded a sort of “Well what the hell are we waiting on?” look. She had tied the red hair into a bun. It had never dawned on me that someone wouldn’t want their long hair blowing wildly in a convertible. Yeah, I was that stupid.

I escorted her to the car, opened the door for her, and held her elbow while she slid in, no way that precious young thing could have made that maneuver unassisted. I pulled the safety belt across and helped her buckle it, being careful not to let a hand brush against anything. She gave me a sharp look anywat and said, “Thanks, I think I can manage from here.” I smiled a goofy look and went to my side of the car.

Being careful to make sure the Green Angel was in first gear, in order to impress the Red-haired Angel with my driving skills, I eased the car down the drive and turned on to Cantrell. So far so good.

Not far to the west, just past where the Burger Chef sat, a street veers off to the right and leads to Rebsamen Park Road. It leads along the river to one of the lock-and-dam facilities constructed during the 1960s. The willow trees along the road gave off a pleasant smell and I kept the car just below stalling speed so I could prolong my joy.

She looked consummately bored, moving only to touch her hair to make sure it was still securely fashioned. I finally said something trite, like, “I understand you teach school.”

“Secrets do get out, don’t they?” She said.

I raked my brain for something more stupid to say. Succeeded. “Have you ever ridden in a convertible before?”

This caused her to turn her head and I glanced at that perfect, oval face, framed by red hair, ruddy, like that of an Irish Princess watching the wild sea. The sight made my breath catch. “Once or twice,” she said.

It continued that way until we reached the parking lot by the lock and dam. I stopped the car, but left it running, not wanting to give the impression of stopping for improper reasons. “I went through that lock on an excursion boat,” I said. “It’s interesting.”

“I’ll bet,” she said, showing some interest for the first time.

“Doesn’t take as long as you think it would,” I said. “You tie up on one side, they let you down, or bring you up, whichever is proper, and you leave out the other side. They reverse the process coming back.”

“How do they pump the water in?”

“They don’t. The flow of the river does the job.”

“Hmm.”

My chance to impress: “I drove boats in the Navy,” I said. “Even coxswained for an admiral.”

“What does that mean?”

“I drove his official boat, called a ‘barge’ in the Navy.”

“Like that one?” She pointed to two long barges being pushed from the lock. “That’s impressive.”

“No,” I said, “It was just a 30-foot power boat. They call it ‘a barge’ though.” I remembered Rita telling me that she was “her daddy’s girl,” and that he was in World War Two. I decided to take a major risk. It could go either way back in those days. “Before that, I was in Vietnam, naval security.”

She turned toward me and looked. “Did you ever get shot?”

My Irish Princess?

“Uh, no,”

“My old boyfriend did. He was a Marine.”

I decided it was time to go back. I eased the Green Angel back onto Rebsamen Park Road, and soon we were flanked once more by the smell of the willows. My mind was racing, and I didn’t say much. The veteran thing didn’t turn out too well, but it didn’t turn out too badly. She didn’t call me a “baby killer.”

Easing back onto Cantrell, I increased the speed and kept trying to think. I was thinking so hard that I had to brake a little faster than normal at the entrance to the apartment, to wait for an oncoming car to pass. “To hell with it. It’s now or never,” I thought.

“Would you like to go out sometime?” I said. “On a date I mean.”

“Sure,” she said, “as long as you don’t kill us both first,” referring back to the fast braking.

Sweet success. But she was quite the feisty one.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 19

Come Wednesday afternoon I wasn’t in a good mood. Things seemed to be a mini-second off two-four time, a typical “hump-day.”

At work, the engineer was showing his ass, to put it bluntly. He was insisting that we move our printing and supply trade to a company where a friend of his worked. This meant leaving the company where Bob French and Bob Wilson worked. If one remembers, these two had guided me through the trying days of multiple deadlines when I had only the scantest idea of what I was doing.

My protests escalated until my original bosses reminded me that the company had changed its name to that of the four owners. In fact, those names were now on the front door. They invited me to check, whereupon I would confirm that my name wasn’t included.

Message and smirk delivered simultaneously.

I walked over to see the two Bobs during the lunch hour. They understood. I was grateful but still aggravated at the thought that it might take me up to a month of careful deceit and treachery to straighten the mess out so we could return to normal. In actuality, it took only a week and a half. I was getting to be that good.

I saved two friendships and escaped any blame whatsoever.

But back to the Wednesday. I drove home with the intention of enjoying the last “two-fingers” of the single-malt my neighbor had given me. I carried a briefcase with me that my Sainted Mother had given me for Christmas. I didn’t plan to do any work, but a successful businessman carried a briefcase everywhere back in those days, even if one had to put a book in it to make it appear loaded.

Before leaving my parking spot at work, I had removed and stored the top of the car, expecting to tool around town later, the epitome of cool. When I arrived home, I parked facing away from the apartment building. Before I could move, the radio began to play the old Johnny Cash hit, written by Kris Kristofferson, “Sunday Morning Coming Down.” I sat and listened to it.

When it finished, I backed out of the Porsche like a crawdad, straightened up, did an “about face” and looked. There, standing like they were guarding the sacred fire in the shrine of Vesta, stood my neighbor, her sister, and the Redhead. They were lined up in formation, staring past me at the car.

All three were wearing jeans, but my neighbor had neglected to zip hers and a flash of pink underwear fought its way through. She spoke first, “Get us a new car, did we?”

“Nice,” her sister said.

“What in the world is that?” the Redhead said.

“It’s a mini-Porsche,” I said. “A 914.”

None of the three spoke. I suppose I became emboldened out of shear boredom. I looked at the three standing there like celestial judges and said, “Anyone want to take a ride?”

“Can’t,” my neighbor said. “Just had my hair done.” True, it looked like she had been hooked up to an electrical current.”

“Maybe next time,” her sister said. Then, as an afterthought, she flashed a grin. “Why don’t you take Brenda?”

Was I going to impress her,
or what?

I looked at the Redhead. She pursed her lips. “Maybe later.”

It was “in for a penny, in for a pound” time. “How much later?” I asked, startled inwardly at my spunk.

She looked at the horizon and thought. “Give me 20 minutes,” she said. “Just knock on the door.”

Oh … my … God.

My Redacted LIfe: Chapter 18 (Cont._3)

 After the near catastrophic incident on the parking lot, I had sold the old Ford sedan, gathered my funds and bought a new car, a green Porsche 914 sports car. I picked it up late Monday afternoon and spent an hour working through the shifting process. By evening, I thought I had it mastered.

To my utter disappointment, there wasn’t a soul outside at the apartment parking lot. I parked in one of the front spaces and stood for a long time admiring the Green Angel and wiping away imaginary specks of dust.

Nobody noticed.

I thought of five reasons during the evening to wander out and check for something I might have left in the car. I did every thing but sing out “Hey, look me over.”

Nobody noticed.

One Tuesday, I drove to work and parked on the farthest back portion of the lot to avoid careless neighbors. The crew at work was interested, but not ecstatic over my new status. No one bothered to walk the five blocks over to see it.

That evening was the Malvern Planning Commission meeting so I honored Interstate-30 with my presence. Other than a few truckers taking my Green Angel as a personal insult, nobody else noticed.

I parked conspicuously in front of the meeting place and told those coming in about my new car. They didn’t seem to understand its appeal to me, so I trudged into the meeting and gave it my best.

On the way home, I took University Avenue from the interstate up to Cantrell. At one intersection, I pulled up to a traffic signal and sat on the right lane of the four-lane. I looked over. Two gorgeous young women sat in a late-model Mercedes adjacent to me. They were talking and laughing, obviously lonely.

Ah, I had a plan. The City of Little Rock has this rule, maybe even a city ordinance, that a vehicle must stop at each traffic signal encountered. Any instance of a vehicle making a green light evidently gets someone at City Hall in hot water. Knowing this, I revved the engine on the Porsche. I would take off in a roar and gain an incredible speed before having to stop at the next traffic signal a block away.

My fantasy continued. Reaching the traffic signal themselves a short time later, the two women would look over, wondering just what kind of man could be driving a wonder car of just power and prestige? Windows would drop. Pleasantries would follow, and admiring looks would abound. The most voluptuous of the two would suggest coffee, and … well, you’ve seen the James Bond movies. Who knew what might follow?

The Green Angel.
Would she be feisty too?

With such a promising plan in mind, I revved the tiny engine again, noticing the short interval between the powerful roar and a whine reminiscent of a dentist's drill. I dropped a few RPMs and waited. The traffic signal seemed to be mocking me. It seemed an hour before I could see the perpendicular lens turn orange, and then.

The Mercedes began to roll forward. I popped the clutch in my car and shot the gas to her, expecting to be slammed back against the seat. I discovered to my dismay and embarrassment that I had put the gearshift into third-gear and not first. The Green Angel shuttered and sputtered as the two women drove away. I imagined that I could hear them laughing.

I didn’t even bother to look over when I reached where they waited at the next light, a block down the street.

Back at the apartment, it was dark and quiet. There wasn’t a light burning in any apartment, not even that of my next-door neighbor. I parked my new car, went in, had a stiff drink of single-malt scotch, and went to bed. I hoped tomorrow would be better.

It was.