Life in the Fast Lane
Part Two
Late Summer, 1961
Judy T. (The Dancing Queen)
I began to look forward to the dances at the Town Hall on Saturday nights and attended them when my schedule permitted. Most of the time I rode down and back with Jay, but a few times, when he got “lucky”, I found myself walking the three, or so, miles back to the radar station alone. Luckily, I never had to walk all the way back because inevitably someone from the base would be driving up the highway, recognize that I was an airman, and offer me a ride.
As much as I enjoyed the dances, and in particular dancing and chatting with Sharon, I was beginning to feel a bit paranoid because of my inability to fast dance. Not that I was some kind of slow dance guru, but I found that hardly anyone, boy or girl, knew how to properly slow dance anyway. No foxtrot, waltz, or rhumba for this group—we just slogged along to the dominant beat of the song, shuffling and trying to keep our feet off our partners’ toes.
Whenever a fast song came on, I retreated to the sidelines to watch the “pros” jitter-bug their way around the floor. As hard as I tried to concentrate on the dance moves, I could never figure out what they were doing with their feet; and all the spinning around did nothing but confuse me further.
A few times, as I watched the couples fast dance to Little Richard and Chubby Checker, a couple of guys asked Sharon to fast dance. Of course she accepted, and watching her glide around, occasionally dipping gracefully under her partner’s outstretched arm, made me feel clumsy and inept. I stood there, glaring down at my clunky military dress oxfords, wishing that I could somehow make them move in jitterbug fashion.
It was one lazy Sunday afternoon and I was sleeping late, having finished one of my grueling nine day in a row work schedules, when I decided to walk over to the base swimming pool and lounge around a bit. Probably the nicest recreational amenity that we had on our little base, it was located right behind the Officer’s Club, sized to Olympic standards, and was surrounded by a tall cedar fence. Best of all, during certain weekends in the summer months, the base would allow civilian guests use of the pool and its facilities—namely, the Officers’ Club and its very cheap drink and food menu. The bartenders were restricted from selling any kind of alcoholic beverages to minors, so if the customer wasn’t readily recognized, or looked too young, he/she would be required to show some kind of identification prior to being served.
The legal drinking age in Nevada was twenty-one, but those of us assigned to the radar station who were underage (I was nineteen), could drink to our heart’s content without fear of getting into trouble. The base was federal property so the base commander set and enforced the rules. Besides, beer at the club was twenty-five cents and cocktails fifty-cents, compared to the downtown casino prices of seventy-five cents for domestic, and a dollar plus, respectively. A nice little perk to make up for all of the base’s many shortcomings.
Since there was only one public pool in the city, usually overpopulated with screaming kids, over-protected mothers, and petulant preteens, our base’s civilian guest weekends meant our pool would be filled with a rather nice cross-section of the local female teen population. On these special days, those of us who didn’t have the money to afford girl-watching in downtown Winnemucca could just lounge by the pool, a cheap beer in hand, and lust over the young half-naked local teen talent. Although there were some families in attendance, most of the visitors were single females eager to meet or just flirt with the modest and diverse population of single airmen stationed there.
On this particular afternoon, after a trip to the chow hall for lunch, I changed into my newly purchased swim trunks, grabbed a clean towel, and sauntered over to the pool to check out the action. After taking a brief dip in the icy water I ordered a can of Schlitz from the bartending sergeant at the club’s take-out window and picked out a vacant vinyl recliner where I could air dry my skinny frame.
Nursing my beer carefully, I had just begun to check out the sights when out of nowhere a buxom red-headed girl in a black two-piece came splashing her way to the edge of the pool directly in front of me. Squealing and flailing about, she appeared to be in a great hurry to get out of the water—her clumsy efforts doing more to splash cold water on me than helping her exit the pool.
“Hey!” She said excitedly, extending a well-freckled arm in my direction. “Give me a hand, will you?”
Having already hurriedly gotten out of my chair to avoid the cold water, I looked around to see if it was me she was talking to but saw no one behind me.
“Me?” I asked.
“Yes, you! Hurry!”
As I reached out with my non-Schlitz hand for her extended arm I noticed another girl, a trim little brunette, swimming frantically in her direction—giggling maniacally and making more of a splashing motion than actually trying to swim.
My first attempt to grab her hand fell short a few inches, and she fell back into the pool with a soft splash. Apparently losing confidence in my helping her get out, she put her head down and attempted to hoist herself up and out of the water by pulling herself up to the edge with her hands, then swinging a leg up onto the pool’s edge. This clumsy attempt did nothing but cause her to lose her balance again and tumble backwards back into the water.
Quickly resurfacing, she shook the water out of her eyes, looked quickly behind her and realized that her antagonist was just about on her.
She screamed!
“Help me get out, dammit!” She shrieked, half laughing, again shooting the freckled arm out of the water.
Setting my Schlitz down next to my recliner this time, I quickly grabbed her hand and yanked her up and out just as the other girl made a final, arms out, porpoise-like leap—narrowly missing the redhead’s ankle.
They both screamed in unison: the pursuer in frustration, and her quarry in surprised relief.
“Goddammit, Judy! Get back in here! No fair getting help!” The brunette yelled, spitting out a mouthful of water. “You’re cheating!”
“Too bad!” Judy, mocked. “I got rescued! Game over!!”
In the excitement of the moment, Judy ended up tightly pressed onto my body with her free arm wrapped around my neck. Rivulets of cold water dripped off her hair and trickled down my stomach and legs.
Oblivious, she turned to face me and said, “Thanks, good looking!” And I noticed that she was breathing extraordinarily hard.
Embarrassed, I stepped back and pulled her arm from around my neck.
“Oh, you’re…you’re welcome.” I said politely, feeling slightly uncomfortable.
By now the brunette had climbed out of the pool and playfully smacked Judy on the butt.
“Cheating bitch!
“Ow! Nah-huh! I was out of the water! You missed me!” Judy said, one hand over her chest and breathing deeply—trying to catch her breath.
“Whatever!”
I looked around for my recliner and saw that it had tipped over—my towel, now sopping wet, on the cement floor. I righted the chair and pulled it back to where it was when the excitement began.
“Oh, I’m sorry, looks like your towel got all wet.” Judy said.
Bending to retrieve the Schlitz can, I said, “That’s OK, at least my beer didn’t spill.”
We sort of stood there, all three of us, looking at each other for a few seconds. Finally, the brunette spoke up. “Well Judy! Aren’t you going to introduce me to your…hero?”
Judy looked at me, then to her friend. “Well if I knew who the hell he was I would.”
They looked at each other in mock surprise and again burst out laughing.
I spoke up. “No really, we don’t know each other.”
“Seriously Judy?” The brunette chided playfully. “You just go up to some strange guy with your boobs almost hanging out and yell at him to yank you out of the pool?”
“Yes I did. And I ended up beating your ass, didn’t I?” Judy responded, in a “neener-neener” tone of voice while quickly checking to see if everything up top was well tucked in. Then turning back to me, she said, “Hi, my name’s Judy. What’s yours?”
“Frank.”
“Hi Frank. She’s Cindy. She’s not really my friend, but she is a pain in the ass!”
“Hey!” The brunette said, squeezing water from her curly brown hair. “Don’t listen to her! Hi Frank.”
Judy was not a small girl, but neither was she large. About five-five or six, maybe a hundred and twenty or thirty well-distributed pounds, she was broad-shouldered, and no one would ever describe her as being petite. Her skin was very light and generously sprinkled with freckles that matched her darkish red hair. Her oval face framed gorgeous green eyes topped with pale to almost non-existent eyebrows and lashes; separated by a medium wide, gently sloping nose. Full pinkish lips shielding beautiful white teeth hovered above a finely rounded chin deeply accented with a really cute dimple. She was not beautiful, but she was extremely attractive and radiated a robust sexual magnetism.
“There,” Judy said. “Now we’re all introduced.”
I started to offer Judy my recliner, then noticed that there was a vacant one a few feet away.
“You care to join me?” I brazenly asked, looking at both girls and pointing at the empty seat. “Sorry, there’s only one,” I said, “but I guess you can share.”
“Sure, why not?” Judy gaily said, “Hey, can you go get us a beer?” She said, dragging the recliner over next to mine. “The guy in the window asked me for my military ID, and, you know, we’re not military, as you probably already guessed.”
“Well,” I answered a bit nervously, “I can only get one. If I ask for two, he’ll want to know who I’m buying the other one for. We’re not supposed to buy booze for civilians.”
This was partially true; but what was really true was that I only had money enough for one more beer.
“OK, that’ll work for me. Cindy! You’ll just have to do without.”
“No, Ju-Ju, we’re sharing—just like the chair!”
As I dug the last coins out of the little pocket in my trunks I gazed over my shoulder and asked, “You guys are eighteen, aren’t you?”
Judy peeled her speckled green eyes wide and said coyly, “Uh-huh, I sure am, honey.” Then pointing her finger at my face and striking a Marilyn Monroe type pose, said, “And you, are Elvis Presley’s brother, right?”
Both girls looked quickly at each other—mouths wide open, then suddenly burst out in an almost coordinated peal of laughter, hugging each other tightly while jumping around like a couple of mad kangaroos.
“OK,” I said, smiling, “Fine, I’ll go get the beer.”
I don’t think either of them heard, or cared to hear, what I said.
***
We sat there and talked for about an hour until Judy, complaining that she was getting sunburned, suggested we move over to a now empty umbrella-covered table. We’d long since drained our beers, and I’d already refused, at least twice, to go get us fresh ones. Cindy excused herself to go to the ladies’ room and never returned. After a while I spotted her at a table on the other side of the pool talking to Jay and a couple of other guys.
“Looks like your friend found some company.” I said to Judy.
She glanced over to where I was looking. “Yeah, good for her. I think she has a crush on that guy ever since she first saw him over at one of those Town Hall dances.”
“Really?” I said, a little surprised. “I’ve never seen either one of you there.”
“Oh, I don’t go there. My parents refuse to let me go. Says those dances are cheap entertainment for loose girls and horny guys. Oh…!” A freckled hand popped up to cover her lips. “Sorry.”
“Oh, that’s OK. But don’t you think that’s a bit harsh?”
“I don’t really know. Why? Have you been to one?”
“Well, yeah. I usually go if I’m not working. I ride down with Jay or a couple of other guys. After all, you know, there’s not much else to do in Winnemucca.”
“You must like to dance a lot.”
“Not really. I don’t know how to dance. Properly, that is.”
“Seriously? But you go to the dances anyway?”
“Well, I just ask the girls (girl) to dance on slow songs.”
“So you know how to slow dance, then?”
“Well….no. I just kinda shuffle along. And, I usually just dance with…uh…just a couple of girls (lie), and only to slow songs.”
“So, you don’t jitter-bug or do the swing or anything?”
“Nope.”
That was when Cindy came bounding back over.
“Hey girl, we gotta go!”
“Oh crap! What time is it?” Judy asked me.
Of course I didn’t own a watch, but there was a big white oval clock (military issue, of course) over the order window of the club.
“Looks like almost four.” I said.
With that, Judy got up and wrapped her beach towel around her waist.
“We gotta run, son.” She said with a little chuckle. “It was fun talking to you.”
“Yeah, same here.” I responded, also getting up. “And nice meeting you too, Cindy.”
“Sure, me too.” She said. “Your friend Jay is soooo cute! Put in a good word for me, OK?”
“Yeah, sure.” I said, not really meaning it. “How’re you getting home?”
“I got a car, but I’m gotta call my mom from the bar inside the club and tell her we’re on our way home.”
“Oh,” I said. “You have your parents’ car then.”
“Nope, got my own.”
“Yeah,” Cindy chimed in. “A new one too!”
I was impressed.
They looked around to make sure they had all their stuff, then Judy looked up and asked, “Hey, do you want to call me sometime? You don’t have a girl, or something like that, do you?”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I’d like to talk to you again, and no, I don’t have a girlfriend.” But, I am engaged, I thought.
“Super! Can you remember my number?”
“Sure.”
And, that was that. After reciting her phone number twice, to make sure I got it, she and Cindy bounded off towards the back entrance to the Officers’ Club. As they went through the door Judy turned and waved.
***
A few days later I walked into the Rec Room and saw that there were only a few guys loitering about and the public use phone was totally free for once. I suddenly thought about calling Amparo. I knew that I needed to communicate with her, and tell her that this long distance relationship (engagement) was not going to work out for either of us. I should just come clean and tell her that because of my weak will and lack of courage I had been talked into proposing marriage to her before leaving for my first military assignment.
I unconsciously pulled a cue off the wall rack and started randomly shooting balls on the vacant pool table.
But how to do that? By letter? By phone? I had no idea. My mind pictured her sitting back there in Texas wondering when she was going to hear from me made my stomach feel queasy and my conscience overload with guilt. I should tell her that I really liked her a lot, but love? I should tell her a lot—but I just couldn’t. The more I thought the worse my guilt felt.
Suddenly, the thought of Judy popped into my head.
Hey! I thought. I could call her and see what she’s doing. She did, after all, give me her number. I reached into my wallet and pulled out the piece of paper I’d written her number on after I got back to my room the day we met.
This did wonders—pushing all thoughts about Amparo away. I remember thinking, no, promising myself: Tomorrow for sure I’d sit right down and write her a letter. I could even start the letter at work, during one of my breaks. Or, heck, I could even call her when I got off my shift. I was sure she’d be so happy to hear from me that she’d forgive me for not contacting her sooner. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.
Picking up the heavy black receiver I selected “nine” on the rotary dial and waited for the constant hum of an outside line. As I dialed Judy’s number any thoughts about Amparo were now headed to the deepest recesses of my brain. Out of sight, out of mind.
***
“Hello?” Not Judy.
“Uh, yes. Hello. Is…Judy home?”
“Who is this?” Not annoyed, just curious. A teacher’s voice.
“Oh, this is Frank. I met Judy at the base pool the other day.”
“Oh, Frank! Yes, she spoke to us about you!” (She did?) “Yes, she’s home. Would you like to speak to her?”
“Yes, please.”
“Sure. Hold the line please.” (So polite.)
“Sure, thank you.”
I heard the receiver clunk, then a faraway voice: “Judy! Judy? Phone.”
A few seconds went by. “Hullo?” Younger voice, very curious.
“Hi, it’s Frank!”
“Frank?”
“Yeah, from the pool. Uh, I mean the base. You know, the base pool.”
“Oh, Frank! Sure! Hey, how are you?”
We spoke for over an hour that first day. She peppered me with rat-a-tat questions about how it was living in Houston (she’d been born in Oakland, California, but her folks moved to Winnemucca when she was still a baby), asking about my parents, why I joined the Air Force, and how I ended up assigned at the little radar station. She asked if I had brothers or sisters, and when I planned to go home to visit. I deftly avoided answering that particular question.
She’d been born late in her parents’ life, and the birth had been complicated and difficult for her mother. She guessed that was the reason she didn’t have any brothers or sisters.
“But really, I like being an only child because I get pretty much anything I want.” She giggled. “But, I’m not spoiled—no, just you know, privileged.” This nugget of information delivered with a cute little chuckle at the end.
And privileged she was. On her seventeenth birthday a few months ago her parents had presented her with a brand new dark blue Chrysler 300 four door sedan. I couldn’t even imagine what receiving a gift like that might’ve felt like.
She continued to ask about my life in Houston and I spared her my experiences with the Pentecostal church, simply explaining that my parents were quite religious and spent a lot of their time in the church.
“So, you’re religious too then?” She asked, guardedly.
“No, not at all. I mostly attended church because going gave me the opportunity to play my guitar.”
“Ah, you play guitar, but you can’t dance. Interesting. If you want to learn how to dance I can teach you—if you teach me how to play guitar.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Oh, you don’t have a girlfriend do you? I don’t want some girl coming over here and starting something because she thinks I’m trying to steal her guy.”
“No.” I lied. “No, I don’t.”
“So you don’t have some steady girl that you see at the Town Hall dances, or maybe someone waiting for you back in Houston?”
Boy, I thought, this girl is some kind of psychic. “No. Well, I mean, I do dance with this one girl at the Town Hall, but it’s mostly because she’s about the only one that can follow my slow dance technique.”
“Technique! Ha, so you have a technique?”
“Yeah, my technique is try not to step on her feet…too much.”
“Ha, I get it.”
“But as far as teaching you how to play guitar, I don’t know if I can; I’ve never taught anyone.”
“I was just kidding about that. So hey, what do you say? Wanna learn how to jitter-bug? Or do the stroll? How about the twist?”
And so the die was cast with that phone call and my dance lessons were on the way. A few days later—thoughts of Amparo and Sharon temporarily put aside—I borrowed Michael’s car and drove down to Judy’s on a warm and sunny afternoon.
Judy had suggested that this would be the best time of day since her mom was usually off to one of her sewing circles (I had no idea what that was), or shopping—and her dad was, of course, at work. Further, if her mom did happen to come home she wouldn’t suspect there was any hanky-panky going on.
“Not that there would be anyway, right?” Judy offered up quickly.
“No, of course not!” I answered just as quickly.
So for the next three or four weeks I drove down to Judy’s house a couple of days a week, and began my dance lessons.
Judy had a brand new portable record player, which when not in use, folded up to look like a small briefcase. Now I was truly impressed.
“My dad bought this for me in California last year for my birthday. Isn’t it cute?”
Although able to play 78’s and 33’s, the little player did most of its work with Judy’s record collection of 45rpm records; the majority of which consisted of Elvis Presley songs.
At the beginning of the first lesson she asked me just how much fast dancing I could do. I told her none at all. To satisfy herself she thumbed through the stack of 45rpm records and finally settled on one.
“This should be a good one to start with. It’s one of my favorites.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Oh, I know you know it. It’s called, “Little Sister.”
In truth, I didn’t know it. Since I’d left home I hadn’t had too much time to catch up on what was popular on the radio. And, at the Town Hall dances the music just started playing with no introduction; and the acoustics were so bad, with the high ceiling and all, that we were lucky to just to be able to sense the beat.
Judy moved a coffee table away from the front of a sofa and pushed the two overstuffed chairs against the wall. She carefully rolled the small oval rug that had been under the table into a tube and set it on the sofa. The floor was highly polished hardwood.
“OK, now let’s get those shoes off and we’ll do this in our socks.” She said, daintily pulling her white and black saddle shoes off her feet. “It’ll be easier to move around and we won’t mar up mom’s floor.”
I sat on the sofa and pulled off my dress oxfords; hoping I’d remembered to put on a decent pair of socks. I had.
She started with the basics: performing the steps by herself—showing me how each foot moved in rhythm to the beat.
“One-two, three/four! One-two, three/four! One-two, three/four! One-two, three/four! See?”
“Uh, kinda.”
“On the ‘one’ you rock on the left foot; the ‘two’ on the right foot; then the three-four it’s a quick left-right. Get it? Also, you step back on the ‘three’, and your partner does the same. When you’re holding hands it’ll feel like you’re pulling against each other. Just remember, you start on your left foot, but she starts on her right—so when you finish the four count you’re back where you started. Easy, right?”
It was easy enough watching and seeing how the pattern of footwork was developing, but I also noticed that there was a lot of body movement above and below the waist. It seemed like her hips were on a couple of hinges.
After she demonstrated three or four times by herself she pulled the needle off the record and started the song all over again.
“OK, time for you to show me what you can do.” She reached out for my hands. “Also, you don’t grab the girl’s hand—just her fingertips.”
I felt like I was completely off balance for the first few minutes. Then, as the song kept playing over and over I started to remember my military marching. There too had been a pattern—and I’d gotten used to that pretty fast. I concentrated on the four steps, keeping my head down and my eyes on my feet. After about the sixth time the song played my mind had mastered my legs and feet. Now about that body sway.
We met at her house on an average of two to three afternoons a week for our hourly dance lessons during that late summer. I never knew I could get so sick of any one song in my whole life.
“We have to keep playing this same song until you’re good enough to do the steps without thinking about them. Then when you’re good enough we’ll play another song.”
I looked longingly at the stack of records and yearned to hear another song…any song.
“OK, again!” She commanded.
***
A couple of weeks later and I felt I was fairly proficient in performing a generic jitter-bug. To my grateful surprise Judy finally relented and took the poor overworked Elvis record off the turntable.
“You like the Diamonds?” She asked, as she ruffled through the jacketed 45s.
“Yeah, I do.”
She pulled one of the disks out, put it on the turntable and gently lowered the needle.
It was one of songs that had rocketed the Diamonds to the top of the hit parade a couple of years earlier: “Little Darlin’”
The beat was still in four-four time, but the rhythm was just a tad slower.
We glided around the shiny floor in smooth coordination and my confidence soared.
“OK,” she said suddenly, “we’re now going to do a cross-over. Ready?”
On the four beat, and as we came together, instead of continuing with the sequence, she raised her right hand—taking my left hand with it—and spun under my outstretched arm. The spin took her through the next three beats and she ended up facing me, ready for a new four count.
“Wow! You’re a natural!” She said, a little out of breath. “Let’s do another!”
I wasn’t sure what had just happened.
And, so it went. For the rest of the hour she showed me how to do a reverse cross-over, a double cross-over, and a cool rock-back step.
Near the end of our lesson Judy’s mother walked through the door carrying a couple of grocery bags.
“You kids still at it?”
“Hi mom! Yeah, Frank’s really getting it!”
“Hello,” I said softly. “Now that we’re dancing to another song I feel better.”
She smiled and walked through the living room and into the kitchen.
“Why don’t you kids take a break and go somewhere to get a coke, or something? Judy, have you taken Frank out in your new car?” This, coming from the kitchen as she was transferring stuff from the bags to the refrigerator.
“Really mom?”
She stepped in to the living room drying her hands on a dishcloth. “Sure, why not? Be back in time for dinner though.”
Then, she looked at me. “Frank, would you like to have dinner with us tonight?”
I didn’t know what to say, but I finally mumbled, “Sure, that would be great. Thanks.”
I wondered what they were having for evening chow back at the base.
***
Judy’s Chrysler was painted a beautiful light powder blue with a white top, and the interior was wrapped in sumptuous dark blue leather, trimmed in an almost overabundance of chrome. The split front seats were separated by a wide leather arm rest, and the back bench seat could probably easily accommodate the entire Pittsburg Steelers’ front offensive line.
As Judy backed the car out of the garage I noted the enormous tail fins cradling a chrome accented continental kit and marveled at the length and breadth of the behemoth. The 413 CID Golden Lion V8 engine growled menacing as Judy gingerly coaxed the monster out to the end of the driveway.
Judy would wasn’t a small or petite girl, but as she sat in the front seat, both hands gripping the oversized crystal blue steering wheel, blowing stray strands of wavy bright red hair out of her blue eyes, she seemed almost pixyish.
“Hey,” she yelled through the panoramic passenger side window, “jump in and let’s go grab a couple of cokes and cruise the strip.”
As we slid by the neatly kept homes in her neighborhood I snuggled up close to the door and hung my right arm and elbow out of the window. Leg room so spacious that I had no trouble casually crossing my right leg over my left, and when I glanced over it seemed that Judy was sitting at least five feet away from me.
“Wow,” I marveled, “this is such a big car.”
“Yes, it is.” She said, smiling as she glanced up at the rear view mirror.
“Why did your parents get you such a big car?”
“It’s what I wanted. They actually wanted to get me a little Ford Thunderbird but I don’t care for sports cars. I prefer to have a lot of room.”
“Well, you got the room, that’s for sure.”
We went to the local drive-in restaurant and ordered Cokes. I felt especially chivalrous because for once I had a couple of five dollar bills in my wallet and was able to pay for the Cokes (cherry for Judy) and fries.
Although she was certainly physically attractive, extremely intelligent, had a crazy sense of humor, and was of course, a great dancer, I found that I just couldn’t bring myself to think of her as girlfriend material. She had an infectious laugh that curled her freckled nose and sometimes sent her into short hiccuping spasms, but I found that I just loved being around her in a strictly platonic sense.
Sometimes after my dance lessons and before I’d climb into Michael’s old car for the short drive back to the base, we’d sit on her porch and just talk. In those few weeks I learned more about her than I’d ever learned about any one human being. She was extremely candid about her upbringing and her hopes for the future; and it surprised me when she went into detail about her parents’ relationship.
One particular afternoon while sitting on the front steps I noticed a rather gangly Daddy Long Legs spider making its way up the side of my pants leg. I gently grabbed it by its spindly legs and quickly brought it up to show Judy.
“Look!” I said as I dangled the spider mere inches from her face. She turned quickly and focused on the spider, who was trying its best to push its way out of my grip with its remaining free legs. Judy’s eyes almost popped wide open and she let out a ghastly scream that I’m sure carried at least a couple of blocks.
In a split second she’d leaped up from the steps and retreated onto the porch—all the while wailing that ear splitting squeal and fists knuckled up to the sides of her face. Thinking her reaction was fake and a little over dramatic, I stood up holding the spider at arm’s length and pushed it a few inches away from her retreating face.
She suddenly ceased screaming, and while backed up against the front door, both hands flew down and she started clutching her chest through her blouse. Her scream dissolved into a semi-gurgling sound and her usually pale complexion took on a purplish hue.
“JUDY!! JUDY!!” Her mother screamed from inside the house. “BABY, I’M COMING!!”
Suddenly realizing that my waving the spider in front of Judy’s face had not elicited the intended result, I quickly threw the equally terrified arachnid out over the porch and into the flower bed.
In a flash the screen door flew open and Judy’s mother grabbed her as she was slowing sliding down the wall and onto the porch—hands still clutching her chest.
“JUDY, BABY WHAT IS IT?” Her mother implored, gently pulling Judy’s hands off her chest. “Can you breathe, baby? Does it hurt?” She asked as Judy completed her slow slide and sat down heavily on the porch. Her complexion was now a definite shade between pale blue with a purple tint.
“SPIDER!” Judy gurgled out, as a thin line of spittle crept out of the side of her mouth.
“Spider? What spider?” Her mother said rapidly looking around.
“Frank…had…a spider…” Judy said between raggedly choking breaths.
“HE HAD WHAT??” Judy’s mom turned and threw me a most vicious stare. “You had a spider?”
“Yes…yes ma’am. It was just a Daddy Long Legs…you know, harmless.” I sputtered.
“You asshole!” Mom spit out.
She helped Judy to her feet, and with one arm tightly wrapped around her back, ushered her through the door. I meekly followed a few steps behind.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly as Judy sat down on the sofa, a bit of color slowly chasing the blue tint away. “It was just a joke.”
Her mother turned and froze me with her stare. “Joke? You little jerk, you could’ve killed her! She has a congenital heart condition and can’t take shocks like that to her system!”
“Oh, I didn’t know.”
“Well mister, now you do!!”
Mumbling some more words of apology, and ascertaining from her mom that Judy was going to be OK, I slinked out of the house and headed back to the base.
After that episode our relationship changed just a little bit. I noticed that Judy was not as easy going as before, and actually showed a little apprehension whenever we were together.
Our dance lessons tapered off, Judy begging off every once in a while by saying she didn’t feel good. It was not a real consequence to me because I felt that I’d gone as far as I could in the fast dance department.
One afternoon a few weeks later I was in the barracks trying to decide whether or not to write to Amparo to break the news that I just couldn’t see us getting married. Feelings of dread washed over me that helped me decide that this was not going to be the day that I would write that letter. I walked out of my room and headed up to the Rec Room.
Seeing that the public phone was not being used I thought that maybe I would just call Judy to help distract me for a while. She sounded happy to hear from me and pretty soon asked if I wanted to come over to practice dancing, but I declined, saying that I really didn’t feel like it.
She hesitated a bit but then said it was probably for the best.
Then, the bombshell.
“You know, my folks put our house up for sale today.”
I remember thinking that maybe I misheard what she’d said.
“What did you just say?”
“My folks are selling our house. The realtor came today and put a sign up in our front yard.”
“Why are you selling your house?”
“We’re moving.”
“You buying another house?”
“Well, yeah. But not here. We’re moving to San Jose.”
Even though I hadn’t really developed any deep feelings for Judy I still felt a sudden pang of sorrow in my chest.
“San Jose? You mean, like in California?”
“Yeah, my dad got offered a management position with the company.”
“But, what about his gas stations here?”
“The company is buying them out and putting them under some kind of lease management. I don’t really understand the deal, and my dad said I didn’t really have to know any details.”
“Well,” I said, still a bit shaken, “you’ll still be here a while until your house sells, right?”
“Not really. We’re leaving in a couple of weeks. The company owns a couple of executive apartments in San Jose, and we’ll stay in one of them until we can buy a new house.”
“So, you’re just gonna leave your house here with the ‘for sale’ sign in the yard?”
“Yeah, kind of. The company is buying the house from us…well, I guess they already did, so they’re the ones selling it now.”
“Wow!” That was all I could manage to say.
“Are you gonna miss me when I’m gone?”
Of course I wanted to say yes, but the question sounded more like a plea than an interrogatory. I decided to take more of an impersonal air.
“Well of course! Who am I going to find to keep teaching me how to dance?”
“Oh…you don’t need any more lessons. I just thought…” She paused, then didn’t say anything else.
“Oh, hey,” I said quickly, “you’re gonna love California! Think of the beaches, the warm sunny weather, and the big city.”
“San Jose’s not on the coast, it’s close to the mountains. It’s cold there, and it’s not a big city.” Now she sounded downright melancholy.
I really didn’t know what else to say so I quickly made up a lie, telling her I had to get ready to go to work, but promising her that I’d call her again the next day.
I didn’t.
A few days later while I was working a swing shift, 4 p.m. until 12 a.m., and was on the radar position, Sergeant Nietzsche came up behind me. “Hey, someone wants you on the telephone. Says it’s important. I’ll get someone to relieve you.”
I didn’t know there was an outside line at the facility on top of the mountain as no one had ever talked about it.
“A phone call for me?”
“Yeah. Some female.” Judy’s face popped into my mind and I suddenly felt apprehensive.
I got relieved off my position and headed out of the control room when I realized I had no idea where the phone was. I looked around for the sergeant and found him just outside.
“Excuse me, sir. Where’s the phone?” He looked a little annoyed.
“You don’t know where the phone is?”
“No sir.”
Pointing impatiently, he gestured toward the hallway leading to the front exit. “I can’t believe you don’t know where the fucking phone is. OK, head that way until you see a door on the right that says ‘Switching Room’. Knock on the door and you’ll be let in. Think you can do that?”
“Yes sir.” I took off in the direction he pointed. As I walked I started thinking of alternatives. Could something have happened to my mom or dad—or maybe my brother? Could it be Amparo had gotten desperate and somehow found the phone number to the radar station? That thought made my bowels jump.
I turned a corner and looked up the long hallway with the exit door at the end. About three quarters of the way down I saw a wooden sign sticking out from the wall over a door: “Switching Room & Communications”
Knocking tentatively a couple of times I waited for a response. The doorknob turned and the door opened. Michael’s cheery face peeked around the door. He was wearing a telephone operator’s headset.
“Hey brother! Get your ass in here and take this call I got on hold for you.”
“Michael?”
“None other. Come on in, amigo you’re letting all my cool ambiance leak out.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked, as I stepped into the small dimly lit room.
“I’m working, fool! Here!” He pointed to a black desk phone on a small round table. “I’ll route the call there. Let it ring once and you’re on.”
He walked back to a switchboard, plugged his headset back in to a panel, and flipped a red toggle switch. The desk phone let out a weak tinny ring.
“You’re on!” Michael said, flashing his usual toothy grin.
I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hi. Uh, Frank?”
I had expected Judy to be on the other end; but, instead…the voice was soft, almost whisper-like—petite.
“Yes?” I paused for what seemed to be an eternity, thoughts running through my head like wildfire.
“Hi. Can you talk? It’s Sharon.”
To be continued….
