Written by David B. Edwards

Mac, Jimmy, and I were school pals.  In 1962 we were freshmen at Lee High School in Midland, Texas, population 50,000.  My brother Larnie was a seventh-grader at Alamo Junior High, a feeder school to Lee.  All three of us 14-year-olds proudly carried our newly-acquired driver’s licenses.  It was a Friday night in October when the four of us went cruising around town.  Mac drove his parents’ Pontiac station wagon.  Jimmy rode shotgun, and my brother and I occupied the back seat.  Ordinarily, we three would be performing as Lee High band members at our team’s football game, but this mercifully was a bye week for the weak, winless Mighty Rebels, who needed some time off to nurse their bruises both of body and ego.  Our cross-town rivals, the Midland High School Bulldogs, were playing the Lubbock Monterey Plainsmen this night in Midland’s Memorial Stadium.

Around seven that evening we began our cruise along Illinois Avenue, and then over to Cuthbert Avenue, exchanging blinking headlights and honking horns with other cruisers coming our way, none of whom we knew yet who were as excited as us to be acknowledged.  Nearing the intersection at Andrews Highway, Mac turned into the driveway of the popular Burger Chef, home of the 19-cent hamburger.  A quarter was burning a hole in my pocket, so I looked forward to sharing a burger with Larnie.  It would be a brief pleasure, because the Chefburger was not much larger than my quarter.  But as it turned out, that delight was not to be.  Sitting on one of the outdoor tables were four cigarette-smoking, thuggish-looking Midland High upperclassmen, who to me resembled buzzards perched and waiting to score a kill before going to their ball game.  In short order we morons handed them that opportunity.  As Mac drove by them he shouted out his window to the thug-buzzards, “Crap on MHS!”  All four threw down their cigarettes and ran to their ’57 souped-up Chevy to come after us.  Mac gunned the Pontiac and sped back up Illinois Avenue toward our side of town.  The chase was on.

The Pontiac was no match for the Chevy, which soon caught up with us on Cuthbert Avenue.  Speeding alongside us, the thugs angrily motioned for us to pull over, as if there were any chance we would actually do that.  Nevertheless, we managed to graciously present them with the functional equivalent of pulling over.  Mac, though sometimes indiscrete with his scatological exclamations, was at the oddest times law-abiding to a fault.  This was one of them.  In those days Texas law did not allow taking a right on red after stop.  The red light to Cuthbert Avenue where it dead-ended at Midland Drive was notoriously long.  So there we sat, hopelessly stymied in the dark at the red light as the Chevy’s brakes squealed behind us and our executioners came running to do the deed.  Fortunately, all our doors could lock and all the windows could close.  They grabbed at the door handles and pounded on the windows and hood.  They tore the radio antenna off and whipped the car with it.  I glanced at Larnie to see if he was all right.  He had snatched Mac’s football helmet from the storage area behind our seat and strapped it on.  Mac was a bench-warming quarterback on our freshman football team and his helmet had a face mask that I was sure Sonny Liston’s best Sunday punch couldn’t penetrate.  At least Larnie would survive to tell Mother and Dad what happened.  I had serious doubts about my own survival.  Just then, the light turned green and Mac out of pee-level panic slammed the car in reverse and knocked one of our tormentors down.  Quickly finding a forward gear, he peeled out on the right turn while the bad guys raced back to their car. 

As Providence would arrange it, before our pursuers turned the corner Mac took a hard right into the first alleyway between the neighborhood houses.  The alley was L-shaped, so he made the second right, parked, and turned off the lights and motor.  Mac whispered to us, “Okay, if they find us and things go bad, I’ll tell them when I said MHS I meant Monterey High School, not Midland High School.  Sorry, that’s the best I can do.”  Just then the Chevy boys rocketed past the alley and didn’t see us.  We all sighed a chorus of relief and waited in silence longer than we had to before heading home.  Larnie and I were disappointed in not getting that Burger Chef treat but were happy to be alive.  I still don’t know how Mac explained the damaged Pontiac to his parents.

Written by David B. Edwards

My first boss in gainful employment was Carl.  I met him when he hired me but rarely saw him thereafter.  But before I tell you more about him and the circumstances of my job under him, I must relate to you the more compelling story that begat this one.  So, here goes.

June 1964 began the summer between my sophomore and junior years at Robert E. Lee High School in Midland, Texas.  I was 15 and joined my best school chums Mac and Jimmy in a little business at the Caravan Motor Hotel on the western edge of town.  We would go to its parking area every morning at four, where we checked the tire pressures and washed the windows of the guests’ vehicles.  We left filled-out cards under the windshield wipers reading, “GOOD MORNING!  As a courtesy while you slept – Your windows were washed, and your tire pressures were checked:  LF ___ psi RF ___ psi LR ___ psi RR ___ psi” For our labor, the hotel paid us one dollar per vehicle.

We usually finished our work by sunrise and were then free to indulge in whatever our summer teenage profligacy demanded until the next morning.  The hotel allowed us swimming pool privileges, so we often spent the entire day there.  One such August day, as I practiced the springboard dives I had learned at the Midland YMCA, it happened.  I not only fell in, but even the more, dived into, love.  Her name was Susie.  She was 15, naturally blond, and the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.  When I saw her entering the pool area I attempted to do my best dives to draw her attention but was too distracted to concentrate.  Quickly abandoning that approach, I took the direct one and introduced myself to her.  It wasn’t much better in my tongue-tied state.  But I did manage to learn her father was in the oil business and was moving the whole family, including eight kids, from Chickasha, Oklahoma to Midland.  When I heard that, the only words that came to mind were, “O frabjous day!  Callooh, Callay!”  I had memorized Jabberwocky in sophomore English.  The next word that occurred to my benumbed mind was “smitten.”  I could hardly wait to get to my dictionary to see whether it described me.  It did.  As it turned out, I should also have looked up “addicted.”

After a month’s arm’s-length romance, school began and Susie was there.  My parents expected this year to be a productive one for me in three principal pathways – academics, music, and athletics.  As the first semester progressed, I regressed in all three of those areas, to the point I had no interest in anything but Susie.  My parents acutely felt my languor and became increasingly concerned, and Susie’s parents pretty much withdrew their welcome mat from me.  By November I realized I somehow had to extricate myself from this web of my own spinning.  After some difficult thought, I brought a proposal to my parents, to which they agreed. 

So, in late December I found myself on a Greyhound bus with a one-way ticket to Long Beach, California.  My mother’s sister Margie, my uncle Brownie, and cousins Cindy, Danny, and Janet met me at the station and brought me to their home in Long Beach, where I would spend the next semester at R.A. Millikan High School.

Cindy was my age, Danny a year younger, and Janet in elementary school.  I think we were all aware of the general plan – just keep David busy and give him time to work himself out of his fix.  As I was to learn, the operative word there was “work.”  After school hours and on weekends, Cindy worked at a fast-food emporium called Master Burger.  Within a week I was the newest burger flipper there.  And potato peeler.  And dressing maker.  And “grill sergeant.”  And floor cleaner.  And order taker . . . well, I did everything that had to be done.  Later military KP duty would be no problem for me.  My interview with Carl lasted maybe five minutes, and then he was off, like the Lone Ranger away into the hills.  I suppose he had more stores to manage or more pints to hoist.  What I was left with was a troupe of characters out of Central Casting.

It was my good fortune that level-headed Cindy was there to break me in on the work and clue me in on how to best deal with the troupe, which I viewed as a veritable Hydra of bosses.  First, there was John, a mild-mannered PhD student in something, perhaps psychology or nerdology, complete with the stereotypical shirt pocket plastic pen-and-pencil holder and Coke-bottle eyeglasses.  I couldn’t understand much of what he said, but he didn’t hold it against me.  Then there was carefree Carrie, who was in her mid- to late twenties.  She was a buxom party girl who drove a 1956 Chevrolet station wagon kept in immaculate party condition.  Nothing was serious with Carrie.  Vince, in his early to mid-twenties, was the Errol Flynn type, the swashbuckling lover boy who captained a flashy new Corvette.  In the summer months he worked on a trawler somewhere off the Oregon coast.  The remainder of the year he spent as a college student, I think in acting (a natural fit), and, at least when I was there, as a hamburger maven.  My last boss in this slate of dramatis personae was pretty Maggie, who was 19.  If there is anyone I’ve known who fits the description “drama queen,” it is Maggie.  I don’t recall her doing much work, because she was usually on the office telephone or the nearby pay telephone engaged in either fiery- or teary-eyed disagreements with one of her boyfriends or family members.  Maggie could emote more than anyone I ever knew, and I made it a point to stay out of her mercurial way.  My best guess is she wound up in Hollywood doing what came naturally to her.

Thankfully, the school year ended with my return to Midland mostly rehabilitated.  Nonetheless, my parents took no chances on my recidivism to Susie-ism.  They moved the family 126 miles away to Lubbock, just beyond my reach to her.  She eventually married Kelly G., a good guy on the baseball team. 

So, in Lubbock I met Jan. . . .