Then there were my friends. One in particular I felt a kinship to and liked because of his loyalty. His name was Dickey McGrew. Dickey was a guy who changed the world I lived in by his attitude about numerous things I held dear. He was a cool dresser, wearing bell bottoms and tie died shirts, considered extremely edgy back then and that dude could cuss like a sailor. Most parents instantly disliked Dickey based solely on his appearance alone, and that was a shame. I was a Levi Strauss wearing, tee-shirted, P.F. Flyer wearing all American looking kid back then and Dickey was my friend. Plus, Dickey had a mom who was a full on hottie. She was built like the much heralded “brick shit house” of lore, better explained in an excerpt from “The Train Ride”, a book I wrote a while back. It goes something like this:
Dickey was the first guy we knew that cussed and had a Playboy collection, and I instantly liked him. Moms have ESP, so mine knew right away he was trouble. His mom, on the other hand, was a full-on hottie and the only mom to wear Go-Go boots and a mini skirt to our intramural football games. Oh the shame of it all. I was sure that catching her as a wife was like the dog that actually caught the car he was chasing. She, Raquel Welch and Anne Margaret were the original reason I became and still am a boob man and she populated many a young boy’s dreams back then, namely mine. We used to call Dickey’s mom the “Dairy Queen” and for good reason. She always looked like she was shoplifting two cantaloupes or a dead heat in a blimp race, in the tight shirts she always wore . She loved me for some reason and would always hug me when she saw me. I really liked it as she always smashed my face into her rack and would not let go until I got dizzy from lack of oxygen. I figured if I were going to die this would be how I wanted to go out and certainly not driving my Dad’s prized possession across Avon Avenue. I hoped my headstone would read:
HERE LIES MASTER JIMMY HALL
KILLED BY BOOB HUG SUFFOCATION
That sounded a whole lot better than,
HERE LIES MASTER JIMMY HALL,
JUSTIFIABLY KILLED BY HIS DAD
FOR WRECKING HIS SWEET ASSED BLACK 63 RIVIERA
WITH SILVER, YES SILVER, LEATHER INTERIOR.
Death by boob suffocation would look good on a tombstone and the getting killed by the dad thing took up way to much space. Dickey’s mom was every young boys dream and every married man’s wife’s worst nightmare as she was a veritable Playboy bunny with kids that cussed and had Playboy books. I asked her to adopt me one time, thinking I could get away with cussin’ and I figured a whipping from her must have been like a dream. She called my mom and told her about my plans and I think my mom agreed to the adoption itself, but also told her she would more than likely bring me back after a few days. I was willing to risk it if Dickey’s Mom was willing.
If you are wondering about the wrecked Riviera, well, that’s a story for another day. This story is about hating spiders. I constructed the characters in this story carefully so you’d know the players involved.
It was the spring at Arkwright Elementary School in the West End of Atlanta, located near the back gate of Fort McPherson, Mitchell’s store and the first McDonald’s hamburger joint I remember. Arkwright Elementary was located on the steepest hill I have ever seen and it was about a mile from my house by foot. I walked it every day with my same street buddies, Dickey included. That day we all toted special lunches because it was field trip day. Not the normal peanut butter and jelly sammich and an apple lunch with a cold milk back. It was the fancy-schmancy (it’s a word) “once in a blue moon” kind that included a honey bun and a coke, and a sandwich with real meat and cheese, with potato chips tossed in. It was, as I recall, a beautiful day. I had no idea what kind of a day it would turn into a few hours later but it really makes me laugh when I think of it now. Then? Well, it started out like a trip to Six Flags over Georgia with no lines at any of the roller coasters, but ended up like Barnabas Collins from Dark Shadows actually walking out of your closet in the middle of the night in some stormy, nightmare come true.
My class arrived at the Atlanta Zoo on that beautiful day, along with numerous other third grade classes from the other elementary schools in the area, us excited by the rare bus ride to the event. When we disembarked (fancy word for ‘got off the bus’) the process was this: your class exited the bus and was immediately assigned a volunteer familiar with the Zoo. This person would serve as a guide who explained, in agonizing detail, every aspect of the compound. Everything from the acquisition of the land to how many times the bigger critters took a dump on a daily basis. It was a cool enough trip, but being led around by a lady named Mrs. Applescwartz stunk, and, she looked exactly like she was named. Skinny, Cat eye glasses, Bouffant hair do, clunky high healed shoes that could be best described as “practical” when a dude would say “hideous”…and a dress that looked like it was a semi formal kilt, but for women and a knee-length. She had a screechy voice and never stopped talking, even when my teacher, Mrs. Reynolds, tried to ask questions.
This trip was getting old quick. Finally, after a good hour and a half, we entered the giant indoor cage where the famous “Willie B”, the giant gorilla, lived. Mrs. Applescwartz actually stood at the edge of the cage, beating on her chest until Mr. Willie B, hairy massive gorilla he was, began beating on his own chest like a competition for the last bunch of bananas might be at stake. Ole Willie then went “ape shit” (me learning the true meaning if the term right then) jumping all over his cage like the wild caged beast he actually was. Later on, I guessed it was her way to aggravate the poor caged, hairy giant into a frenzy. She came across to me as that kind of person after nearly two hours under her leadership.
Then it happened.
We left the Gorilla cage and headed for the final attraction, the much-anticipated “Reptile House”, an out-door venue that was actually a giant round building with all of the displays holding the slithery and horror movie type critters behind glass enclosures. You entered the exhibit through a set of waist-high heavy rails that left a funky, sour milk smell on your hands if you slid them across it too long. The displays were designed around the outside of the building and just wide enough for a loose single file line and a guide out front. My buddies and I were at our normal outpost, the back of the line, waiting for our turn to see the giant snakes, turtles, fish, lizards, and yes, spiders, all from some remote place on the planet where Marlin Perkins visited on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. If you’re from my generation, that’s the show that came on after the crappy cartoons like “Jot” and “Clutch Cargo” on Sunday mornings, just before “Gospel Singing Jubilee”.
The Reptile building was big enough for our entire class to stretch around so that the front of the line and the back of the line met at the combined entrance/exit. Dickey and I made up the very last two spots in line, meaning for a brief moment in time, Mrs. Applescwartz, Dickey and I were within a few feet of each other. It was awkward, like the “floor sweepers” crossing paths with upper management in the same coffee shop awkward. Us back-of-the-liners rarely intermingled with the goody two shoes types, even if only for a split second. Right then it was inevitable, and that would prove to be my folly.
More Friday!
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