Kansas
Part One
March-December 1964
A New Start
I had accrued well over a month of home leave during my year-long assignment in Alaska, so Sharon and I decided that we’d use the majority of that time acclimating ourselves to our new environment rather than spend any more time in Houston. Since I’d been awarded two days travel time to my hometown I was not officially on leave until February 14th, making my official check-in at the Olathe NAS around March 15th.
I spent the first few days at home getting reacquainted with Ricky and getting to know Frank, Jr. Ricky had been Frank’s age when I’d left for Alaska. And although they were only eleven months apart and still very young, it was amazing to already see their differing and widely distinct personalities.
Whereas Ricky had been, and still was, a very fussy baby—prone to extended bouts of colic and other painful digestive ailments resulting in hours of crying and irritable behavior, little Frank was quiet, calm, and almost oblivious to whatever was going on around him. Whenever it came time to change his diaper or give him a bath he would just watch with intense interest at the activity going on around him and hardly make a sound. He would occasionally smile but did so for no particular reason.
Ricky, even from a very early age and when not in pain, was quick to flash a winning smile—and when shown little trinkets, or when the little mobile suspended over his crib caught his attention, he would often break out into a wide-eyed arm-waving, and leg-kicking frenzy.
On the other hand, nothing appeared to impress little Frank. He seemed to be able to lay in his crib for hours on end quietly cooing to himself—his eyes darting back and forth in a seemingly constant quest to absorb the new environment around him.
We had to almost guess when he might be hungry, finally just warming up and feeding him bottles on a time-scheduled basis. He took his meals without much emotion, and when sated he’d just close his eyes and go to sleep—the nipple eventually just falling out of his mouth.
There was no guesswork on when Ricky wanted to be fed. His eyes would suddenly almost pop out in their wideness, and the arm-waving and leg-kicking would almost always precede a high-pitched howl of distinct displeasure. As he was already walking, he would suddenly stop in mid-step, throw himself on the floor and go into a wild crying jag until Sharon or I picked him up and sat him in his high chair. Once there he would continue to express his discontent until a bottle was either shoved into his mouth or a mushy bowl of Pablum was placed on the high chair’s table.
Hearing all the commotion, little Frank, either in his bassinette or in his crib, would turn his head, focusing on his brother—his face a mask of curiosity. Then he would almost always search around the room trying to find me or his mother, and once found would stare at us with an expression on his face that almost plaintively asked, ‘could you guys please shut that kid up?’
Those first days in Houston, as I reacquainted myself with my wife and my two sons, were probably the happiest that I had experienced up to that point in my young life. I loved being around the boys and literally spent hours just gazing at my beautiful wife as she went about the business of being a mom. As an adult I had not often experienced many instances that had brought me to tears, but just watching Sharon and my precious little sons would cause my throat to tighten up and my eyes to well up with tears of happiness. On several occasions Sharon caught me looking, pushed her glasses high up on her nose, and asked if I was all right. All I could do then was nod my head and hug her with all my might.
***
Two days before we were to leave Houston on our way north to Kansas, we took time out to pay a visit to my parents. I had called them the day after I’d arrived and, of course, my mother wanted me to immediately drop everything and come over to their house. I politely declined her invitation saying that we had a lot of catching up to do—and then there was all this packing that had to be completed. I promised that we’d pay them a visit before we left on our trip north.
When we finally did get over to their house the visit was almost uneventful, with mom strutting around like some proud mother hen, and being on her very best behavior. She fussed over the boys and told no one in particular how she was going to miss them, and especially Sharon, so much when they were gone. She had ordered a little cake and gave the boys some farewell gifts. It seemed like a semi-formal birthday party instead of a farewell get-together.
Dad was his normal stoic self, asking if I wanted him to give the Chevy another good looking over. I thanked him for his checking the car out for Sharon while I was gone, and assured him that everything was in tip-top shape. He then offered me some money for the trip, ‘just in case you run short, or something unexpected comes up’, but again I declined, telling him that the Air Force had given us plenty of travel money.
We didn’t stay too long, and when we finally piled back in the car and said our farewells out on the driveway, mom really broke down and started crying bitterly. As she pulled me close and hugged me tightly, she whispered that she was so sorry that things hadn’t worked out between her and Sharon and asked for my forgiveness. I tried to assure her that all that was in the past and that I was sure there were no hard feelings, but I could feel that her remorse was deep if not sincere. I kind of thought that maybe her appeal for forgiveness should’ve been delivered to Sharon instead of me.
Even Dad got a little misty-eyed, and when he hugged Sharon he told her that he loved her and was really going to miss her. I was deeply touched, but wondered why those feelings and emotions hadn’t been expressed to Sharon when it really mattered. I know it would’ve meant the world to her to have felt loved and accepted by people she didn’t even know and hadn’t ever seen, before after being dumped in a strange house with a young and sickly child and another one on the way. But, then again, that behavior was typical of my parents—fucking things up, then plunging headlong into a long and regretful damage control mode.
A couple of days later, after renting a U-Haul trailer and hitching it up to the back of the Chevy, we made the final preparations for our trip. While I was away, Sharon had bought some furniture for the house so we were now the proper little family, disassembling cribs, beds, small appliances and clothing, and stowing them into the car and trailer before setting off to discover our new future.
There was definitely a sense of excitement as we worked together, as we’d never done before, to prepare the boys and ourselves for the long drive to Olathe. This time, there would be no intrusive and useless passenger…just Frank and Sharon and the two boys. For the first time in my life I felt the heavy and strange accountability that comes from having to be responsible for and taking care of someone other than oneself.
As we drove north out of the bustling city and settled onto the long dark, freeway, I began to see that the year I had just spent away had not only exposed me to my own weaknesses and fears, it had also forced me to mature and actually forced me to learn to be productive and self-sufficient. I also came to the realization that my life was now irrevocably linked to the other three lives in the car. And for us to achieve happiness and success as a family, I would have to be not only a good husband and a father, but a leader and a role model for my boys.
As the miles passed under us and my wife and children dozed peacefully, I promised myself that from this moment on I would do everything within my power to provide for and protect my little family. I was never going to leave them again, and I was going to do everything in my power to make up for the time that was lost while I was gone.
But what I couldn’t see then, and what I failed to understand and appreciate, were the circumstances of our unique situation. Young and inexperienced in life, we had suddenly found ourselves having to deal with the rigors and expenses of raising a child within months of having been married. Right after getting married we found it necessary for me to get a part time job to make ends meet. While that may have alleviated our financial situation somewhat, it took precious time away from us—time that would’ve been better spent getting to know one another.
Worse, before we even knew who we were as individuals, we had been ripped apart and forced to spend a year away from each other—during which time a second child had been added to our already bulging equation.
Given those conditions, any relationship would have long or even no odds of turning out successfully. But even though I knew we had many problems to overcome, I truly believed that with the love we had for each other and our children we could bridge those obstacles and make ours a solid and lasting marriage. I know that once I returned from Alaska I had committed to spending each day, and for as long as it took, working at making life better for us and for our children.
A few minutes after driving out of Dallas, Sharon woke from her long nap. The boys were still sleeping in the back seat so we began to talk.
It was the first time that I could remember ever having so much to say to her. We’d never really had the time to spend, just her and I, discussing such mundane subjects as how she used to wait for me to ask her to dance at the old dance hall, and my telling her that I loved the way she laughed when I first met her.
And, all too soon it seemed, the boys woke up and it was time to take care of their needs. But for just those few moments I felt a closeness to her that I’d never felt for anyone else before.
I couldn’t wait to spend the rest of my life with her.
***
While I was in Alaska it seemed that every time someone complained about being so far away from home and their loved ones, there would always be someone else who’d pipe up and say: “Well you know, absence makes the heart grow fonder”.
For a long time, I actually believed that.
Olathe NAS, and Hints of Things to Come
As we crossed over from Oklahoma to Kansas, a little spark of excitement seemed to pass through our car.
“Well, honey,” I said to Sharon, “we’re now in Kansas! Imagine that!”
She gazed out the passenger side window at the passing prairie land.
“You said it snows here in the winter, right?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“Well, I hope so. At least I hope we have colder weather here than down in Houston. That was miserable.”
“Yeah, well I don’t know that I’m ready for any more snow. I saw plenty of that cold crap to last me for years!”
She turned and gave me a naughty look. “Yeah? Well as I see it one of the problems you had up there was that you didn’t have my naked body under the covers to warm you up!” Then she blushed terribly. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I just said that!” She threw a quick look at the back seat where little Frank was sleeping in his bassinette and Ricky was curled up sucking on a pacifier. Satisfied that the boys hadn’t heard anything, she looked at me and pursed her lips tightly. She opened the glove compartment where we’d shoved a small box of Kleenex and ripped a couple out. Taking her glasses off, she wiped her eyes and forehead; then balled the tissues up and brought them up to her mouth.
“God…” she whispered into the tissues and shook her head slightly.
I reached over and touched her shoulder gently.
“Hey, that was funny, and kinda sexy.” I said.
She twisted her head to the right and made believe there was something of interest passing by our car.
“You think?” She said to the window.
“Yeah, and OK, a little slutty too!”
She turned back to her left and held me with her eyes. She scrunched her shoulders up almost to her ears, and broke out into a partially-stifled laugh.
Then, at the same time we both broke out in a deep and hearty laugh. She tried to hold her amusement in, but a chortle just popped out of her mouth and then she was out of control.
We enjoyed this brief moment of hilarity, finally winding down as we both looked back to check on the boys.
This seemingly innocuous moment went deeper than intended, but served to demonstrate something very personal in Sharon’s personality. To a lot of people, she could seem cold and disaffected most of the time—sometimes even rude. The truth was that she was painfully shy and exceedingly modest.
She was a highly intelligent and deeply emotional woman, but she hid all of this under a thick veil of quietness and bashfulness. She never bragged—not about herself, any of her accomplishments, our children, or her beauty. When around other people she preferred to remain in the background and listen, rather than add to or even initiate a line of conversation. Even when having her picture taken, she would struggle to manufacture even the slightest smile, fearing that she’d come across as showy.
Nothing I can say about her shyness can elucidate the point better than to relate a short conversation that we’d had right after we were first married. She had just returned home from doing some maternity clothes shopping in downtown Winnemucca when she told me about a conversation that she’d had with a saleslady at the local JC Penney department store.
“I’d picked out a few things and had just come out of the dressing room to look at myself in the full length mirror when the girl who’d been helping me came up.” She said. “She commented on how well everything fit, but maybe I should consider getting a size larger. I told her that the pants were already a little loose so they should be OK, and the top was just fine. That’s when she said, ‘Honey, that top is not going to work for you in a few weeks—take my word for it. Your boobs are gonna need some growing room, so you may want to change out that top for a larger one.’ I turned blood red from embarrassment and didn’t know what to say to her. So the next thing she said was, ‘You also need to pick out a couple of maternity bras—you know the kind that will accommodate your larger boobs and help soak up any leaking milk.’ Then she asked what size my boobs were. I was so embarrassed that I just blurted out that I didn’t know. She then said, ‘No problem, sweetie, let’s go back inside the dressing room and let me take a look at them and the bra you’re wearing. Looks to me like you’re a 32A, or so, but I’ll know better when I see them. Then I’ll be able to gauge just how much more they’ll be growing and I can pick you out a bra or two.’”
At this point, Sharon’s face had turned a deep red and she was chewing her lower lip. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to just cross my arms and continue to listen with a serious look on my face. I chose the latter.
“So then,” she continued, “I just told her to bring me a couple of different bras and I’d pick out the one I thought would work. Hell, there was no way I was gonna let her into the dressing room to look at my boobs! So I just ran back in and locked the door. She had to knock, then I just opened the door wide enough for her to hand me the bras.”
She paused, and I thought this was the end of the story. “Well, I think she was just trying to help, you know. I don’t think she meant anything else by it.”
“Well Frank! I’m telling you now. That besides you and my mom, no one’s had a look at my boobs, and no one is ever going to! I would just die. I wouldn’t even let my sisters get close when I was changing clothes.”
“Oh Sharon. That’s crazy. What about your gynecologist? Surely he’s had a look…and not only at your boobs.”
“Oh God, I thought I was gonna die when I found out what he had to do. But I decided that that was necessary and I almost cried. It took all I had to force myself to get my legs into those hideous steel stirrups. Ugh! But to have some stranger look at and squeeze my boobs? No! Never!”
“I think you’re overreacting.”
“OK, let me tell you this: I just hope I never discover that I have a cancerous lump, or something, in one of my boobs, because, I’m telling you, I guess I’ll just have to die of breast cancer. I could never stand having some doctor, or even some nurse, touching and squeezing my boobs. I’m serious! I would just rather die!”
I took that comment as an overreaction as I did the rest of our conversation that day. I knew she was shy and very withdrawn around strangers, but I took, with the proverbial grain of salt, her comment about discovering a lump in one of her breasts.
It would be fourteen years later when a late night phone call to my home in Guam would force me to heartbreakingly recollect that conversation.
***
The large green highway sign on the side of the freeway announced that Gardner and the Olathe NAS exit was coming up in five miles. Just under that, it said that Olathe was still fifteen miles away.
“So, we get to Gardner and the naval air station before we go through Olathe?” Sharon asked.
“Well, it looks that way. Check the map to make sure we’re still heading in the right direction.”
She dug the roadmap out of the glove compartment and after adjusting her glasses stared intently at the multi-folded green and beige map.
“Yup, Gardner comes first, then Olathe about ten miles north.”
The last sign we’d seen had directed that all naval air station traffic take the Gardner exit, then follow the signs to the Olathe NAS. I couldn’t see anything that would qualify as a town as all the land on either side of the freeway looked to be rolling farmland or pastures. White patches, scattered here and there in the beige-colored grasses told us that it had snowed not too long before.
A few minutes later we were diverging off the freeway and turning left under the overpass.
“Hey honey, dig my orders out of the glove box too. I’ll need to show them at the gate when we get there.”
“OK.” She said as she jammed the map back in and pulled my transfer orders out. “I wonder what base housing will look like.”
“I don’t know. I just hope they don’t try to jam us into a one-bedroom apartment.”
“God! I hope not! You don’t think they’ll do that, do you?”
“You know how my luck runs. Who knows?”
We followed the signs and took a diverging road to the right, leading us off the main road into Gardner. About a mile later, I spotted the familiar block house-type building that marked the entrance to the base. As I slowed down, I saw that the gate was manned by a sharp-looking navy guard, resplendent in his white top and bell-bottoms. He had a chrome helmet that brought back memories of my arrival to Keesler Air Force Base, in Mississippi, three years earlier.
After inspecting my orders and checking our military IDs he asked us to open the trunk to inspect its contents. By then Rick was starting to get cranky and little Frank was cooing loudly.
“I hope he hurries,” Sharon said, looking out the back window, watching as the guard moved a couple of boxes around, “the boys need to be changed and fed pretty soon.”
“It shouldn’t take too much longer.” I said, not having the slightest idea how long all this was going to take.
Satisfied that we weren’t carrying any dangerous contraband, the guard gave us directions to the administrative building where I was to check in.
“Will they assign us base housing there?” I asked, innocently.
“No sir!” the guard barked. Since you’re Air Force, you’ll be issued a voucher for temporary quarters. Once you report to your permanent duty station your squadron commander will determine where you’ll be living. Now, move along please!”
“Ask him if he knows where we’ll be living.” Sharon suddenly asked, leaning over to her left and trying to catch the guard’s eye.
“Don’t know, ma’am! Now, move along!” The guard said, now very impatiently.
“OK, thanks.” I said, as the guard took a step back and popped his right arm up to his chest, signifying that we should move along.
***
We found the administrative building after driving around for what seemed to be hours. The base was huge, and it was strange to see the personnel walking around all dressed in Navy blues and whites. There was an occasional Marine, but not any Air Force or Army troops to be seen.
After asking directions from a couple of sailors, we finally ended up finding the large white building, almost at the center of the base. It was definitely an air station as the noise of departing fighter jets was almost overwhelming, and I didn’t even know where the runways were!
I left Sharon and the boys in the car because carrying them and trying to figure out where to go inside the building would’ve been a real chore. After speaking to a naval clerk, I was directed to a section of the building where I found a counter with a placard that said, “New Arrivals”. Well, that would certainly be me.
After having my ID checked, and my travel orders checked and rechecked against a master list, it was determined by the Navy that I was, in fact, me.
I was told that I would be given a temporary housing voucher that could be used at any motel in Gardner or Olathe for the next thirty days. The voucher specified a two-bedroom suite and I was told it would be honored by any lodging facility in either town. “Just make sure you get a suite.” The sailor waiting on me said, and he handed me a sheet of paper with the names and addresses of recommended hotels and motels in the area that would accept the military vouchers.
He also said that in about two weeks, and after checking into my Air Force squadron, I should receive my housing assignment: probably in a six apartment unit located in Gardner. The housing there was service integrated—that is, your neighbor may be Air Force, Army, Navy, or Marine.
I was assured that it would be a two-bedroom unit: living room and kitchen downstairs and two-bedrooms and one-bathroom upstairs. The units had been constructed within the last two years so they were in excellent shape. The sailor said he would recommend to my commanding officer to put us in one of the newer units. (He said it so robotically that I assumed he told everyone he checked in the very same thing).
Once I was processed, I was told to report to another section of the building to receive my temporary housing allotment. It turned out to be a little over two-hundred dollars—and those funds were to be used for living expenses until my pay caught up with me and we got settled in to our permanent housing unit. “And no,” the paymaster said, “you don’t have to pay it back.” I walked out and back out to the car feeling like I’d just won the lottery.
As I got back into the car, Ricky was in full blown crisis mode and even little Frank was acting cranky. I was in such a good mood I hardly even noticed.
After leaving the base we looked for, and quickly found a nice looking motel whose name was on the list. The sign outside said, “VACANCY”, so we drove up and checked in. The lady at the desk was cheerful and had us accommodated in record time. She had a gentleman, who I assumed was her husband, help with unpacking our car and getting us set up in the room. In just under an hour we here all settled in, and Sharon was in the bathroom giving the boys a bath.
I finally sat down on a comfy-looking chaise lounge and fiddled with the television sitting on the dresser. It was the first time that I’d actually relaxed since leaving Houston, so I just stretched out and tried to relax. I felt really overheated and started to sweat just a bit. An odd feeling of heavy thirst overtook me so I quickly got up and walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water.
As I drained the large tumbler in huge gulps, I suddenly felt as if my heart had stopped. I pulled the glass from my lips and dropped my chin down to my chest, breathing a little hard.
My heart felt like it was doing flip-flops in my chest and I began to get very light-headed. I looked around and found a kitchen chair close by. I grabbed it and pulled it under me before my legs gave out on me.
After sitting for a while, my eyes closed and my head between my legs, I suddenly felt my heart fall back into rhythm and I instantly felt better. I opened my eyes and noticed that my hands were as cold as ice. I looked at them and saw that my nails were a light purple color.
Within a few minutes I was almost back to normal—my body warming up and my head clearing.
“Hey honey!” I heard Sharon calling from the bathroom. “Could you come in here and help me with the boys?”
“S-s-sure. I’m on my way.” And I got up, still a little shaky.
That night, just before falling asleep for the first time in Kansas, I thought about what had happened to me earlier while drinking that glass of water. I thought back and remembered something very similar that had happened to me when I was about eight or nine years old.
It was a typically hot Houston summer and I’d been doing my usual running around outside when my mother called me in for lunch. I remember that I was very thirsty and I asked her for a glass of cold water. She took some chunks of ice, put them in a jelly jar glass, and filled it full of tap water. She stirred the water and ice around and tested its coolness with her pinky.
“There,” she said, “nice and icy cold. Be sure to drink it all down. You’re really hot and sweaty.”
I did my best to chug the entire glass down when I suddenly felt something in my chest go ‘thump’. I stopped drinking in mid-swallow. Abruptly, I felt as if a frog had been let loose inside my chest and was fighting like crazy to get out. My legs got very weak and I fell to the floor on my butt.
My mother, thinking that I was pulling one of my dramatic acts, looked annoyed and yelled at me to get up. I tried, but all that happened was the glass slipped out of my quickly weakening hand and fell to the floor spilling the remaining water and ice. I tried to breathe but found that I’d somehow forgotten how to inhale. I fell back onto my back and the room began to slowly get dark. The frog in my chest was frantically trying to pound its way out.
The next thing I remember is hearing my mother repeating, “mijito, mijito, mijito”, over and over again. She was squeezing me so tight I thought I was going to break in half.
I took a very long and deep breath and broke into a loud sob, half scared to death.
“Ay, gracias a Dios…” I heard her say.
Later, either that day, or maybe some other day, I recalled asking her why I had felt that way. Ever simplistic and believing that whatever explanation she made up, or popped into her head at that moment had to be pure gospel, she said, “Oh, OK, here’s what happened. See, we all have blood clots floating around our veins all the time. So when one of the big ones tries to go through your heart they sometimes get stuck. Then the heart has to squeeze very hard and very fast to try to push it back out so the clot can continue to float around your body. That’s all.”
“Oh good,” I remember thinking, “nothing too serious then.”
Furniture, Car Hops and Cars
After almost a month at the “Deluxe Motel” in Gardner I was notified that I had been granted military housing. It was located on the north side of the little town and just south of the naval base. The units were all six-plexes—that is, one large unit housing six two-story apartments side by side. We were fortunate to have gotten one on the end of the building, giving us only one next door neighbor to contend with.
As it had been previously described to me, the front door opened onto a small living room that was co-joined by a small kitchen and kitchen nook. The back door opened directly into the kitchen. One straight flight of stairs just to the right of the front door led to a small bathroom, with two bedrooms off to the left.
The place wasn’t roomy, but we hardly had any furniture anyway. The first thing on our agenda was to head into Kansas City and do some furniture shopping for the living room. By our second week we had purchased a sofa, two chairs, and coffee table—all in Danish modern. We also decided to get the boys a twin-size bunk bed set as we figured they would eventually need to upgrade from the crib and bassinette.
Before we knew it, we’d spent over six hundred dollars, and even after we’d put as a down payment most of our housing allotment, we had accumulated a monthly furniture payment that ended up taking a good portion of my monthly paycheck.
After doing the figures, we came to the conclusion that without my getting a part-time job we’d never be able to make it month to month.
I asked around work to see if anyone knew of any part-time work, but no one had any suggestions. One evening, after tiring of the usual rice or potato casserole we seemed to have for dinner every night, I told Sharon to skip making dinner and to get the kids ready to go out.
Without knowing where we were really going, I decided to spend what was left of the weekly food budget money on something different. We hadn’t had a lot of time to really get acquainted with the area, so we just jumped into the car and got on the freeway heading north to Olathe.
We took the “Santa Fe Drive” exit and headed west—where the local population seemed to have all settled. We passed a couple of gas stations and a restaurant or two that appeared to be way out of our class, when Sharon pointed to a garish-looking drive-in restaurant on the left side of the road.
It was made up of a flat frame building, with a large roofed extension with marked slots for cars to pull up under. Each slot had a set of brightly-lit menu boxes where one would yell in their food order to someone inside the main building. It could’ve easily been the precursor to today’s modern “Sonic Drive-Ins”, except for one huge difference.
The entire structure was dominated by a colossal red and white, neon-trimmed, arrow that looked like it had been launched by some giant Indian high into the sky from miles away, and had landed diagonally in the dirt, right smack in front of the restaurant. Along the white shaft of the enormous arrow, in bold red flashing neon print was the name of the establishment: “Custer’s Last Stand!”
I found it impossible to drive by this place without at least checking the menu out, so we pulled in and looked for an empty slot. Even Ricky was excited at the enormity and brightness of the display.
After pushing a radio button on the illuminated combined speaker device and menu, we put our food order in. There was stuff like, “Broasted Chicken (what the hell was that?), a Big Chief burger, French fries—Squaw and Papoose sized, and Pinto Pony dogs (my imagination ran wild on that one).
Our order was brought out by car hops who attached a tray to the driver’s side window. They wore red cowboy hats and were dressed in tight white jeans with bright red aprons tied to their waists. They each had a coin changer strapped to a leather belt slung low to one side as if it were instead meant to hold a pistol.
While we were eating, Sharon noticed something on the window of the main building.
“Look, there’s a sign saying they need a fry cook. You oughta go in and submit an application.” Then she started laughing. “I think you’d look cute in a nice red apron.”
“I don’t think the cooks dress like the car hops. They’re probably outfitted in leather chaps and stirrups.”
We both laughed at that one.
As I finished my burger, I thought that maybe I should go in and at least ask if an applicant needed experience as a fry cook. If nothing else, I could brag about the great dish-washing experience that I’d gotten as a teenager at the Mexican restaurant and at the Hilton Hotel in Houston.
“You know,” I said to Sharon, “I think I’ll go in and check it out. What harm would it do? All they can say is no.”
“Seriously? What do you know about cooking?”
“Well, how hard could it be? Slap a pattie on a grill and flip it a couple of times. I saw enough of that when I was going through the chow line in basic training.”
I flashed my lights, signaling the carhop that she needed to remove the tray from our window so we could leave. With the tray gone I opened the door and slid out.
“Wish me luck, Pocahontas! Me go try to earn us some wampum.”
“Your dad’s an idiot!” Sharon said to Ricky.
***
I was hired on the spot by the drive-in restaurant’s owner, Dale Custer. Yes, that was his real name. He took my employment information and gave me a couple of schedules to mull over at home. He asked me to let him know which one would work best for me and my family as soon as I could, and would keep the position open until I got back to him.
The pay was a dollar-fifty an hour, meals included, and each shift was six hours long. The hours for the fry-cook position were from 5pm until 10pm, when they closed; and the extra hour was for cleaning and shutting everything down. He would train me on the broaster (?) and the grill. He insisted that I would catch on in no time.
After discussing the job with Sharon, I drove back a couple of days later and told Dale I would accept the position. The shift we had decided on was Monday through Thursday evenings, with the option of working a day shift (11am-5pm) on Saturdays if I wanted to make extra money. Since my Air Force job was Monday through Friday, from 7am until 4pm, I would be able to fit the part time work in just fine. For sure, the extra money would go a long way toward bringing us back into near solvency.
What I didn’t count on was the time I was going to lose not seeing my family.
And it would only get worse.
***
When I bought the 1950 Chevy Bel Air body from the junkyard back in Winnemucca, I received a Nevada State Salvage Title. When the car was rebuilt I applied for a Nevada State Auto Title and got it, but was only able to get temporary paper plates before we left the state on our way to Texas. While Sharon had the car in Texas she was finally able to get permanent Texas plates in late April 1963.
Now, having just arrived in Kansas, we had just one month left before our Texas plates expired. Both in Nevada and Texas, auto registration and licensing consisted of only paying a registration fee and a small surcharge for the actual plate. In Nevada the total was less than five dollars, and Texas came out to less than ten dollars. However, in Kansas auto license plates were based on the value of the car, plus you were charged personal property tax on the auto.
A few weeks after we’d arrived in Kansas, I did some checking with the DMV and found that in addition to the registration fee and property tax, the car would have to be inspected—and that would cost an additional five dollars. Altogether, we were looking at over eighty dollars to register, inspect and license the car. This was money that we didn’t have, especially after having bought furniture and some new clothes for the boys.
One day while I was at work at our radar detachment, I was having lunch in the break room and complaining about the cost of licensing my car in Kansas. A staff sergeant that worked on my crew overheard my grousing and came over to my table. He was tall and lanky, and had the reddest head full of hair that I’d ever seen on one man’s head.
“Hey,” he said, “you’re one of the new guys that just came in, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” I said, wondering if I’d stepped on some toes by complaining about Kansas.
“Yeah, you and that guy Sánchez checked in about the same time.”
“Right, but he’s on another crew.”
“OK, yeah. Hey, I’m Bob,” he said, extending his hand, “but everyone calls me ‘Red’.”
I stood up and shook hands. “Nice to meet you. Call me Frank.”
He pulled up a chair.
“So,” he said, “I overheard that the DMV’s trying to get into your wallet.”
“Wow, I guess!” I replied. “Almost a hundred dollars to get my Kansas plates and inspection sticker.”
“Well, you know you can keep your old Texas plates on your car until they expire. You don’t have to change them out as soon as you get here. Then, there’s a thirty day grace period after they expire.”
“Well, that doesn’t help me much. Mine expire at the end of April.”
“OK, that means you have until June first to switch over to Kansas plates.”
“That’s not much help. I won’t be able to scrape up that kind of money for at least six months.”
“So,” he said—pulling his chair up close and lowering his voice. “I think I may have a solution.”
“Oh?”
“See, I bought a used car last year from this dealer guy in Missouri, and…well, things got a little tough on the payments, and I’m going to have to give it back.”
“Oh!”
“Yeah, my old lady and I are splitting up, and, you know, she’s kicking my ass pretty good…financially. I just can’t afford the payments so the car’s going to be repossessed.”
“That sucks.”
“But…the thing is…I got Kansas plates on it that I just renewed in February. And since in Kansas, a car’s license plates stay with the taxpayer and not the car, I will soon find myself with a set of plates and no car.”
“Uh…OK.”
“You just moved into one of our units in Gardner, right?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, you’re the guy with the cool-looking light-green Chevy.”
“That’s right.”
“So here’s my offer. I will be needing transportation to and from work when my car is repossessed—and I just live down the street from you. So, how about when I lose my car and your Texas plates expire, I slap my Kansas plates on your car and you let me ride back and forth to work with you. What’dya think?”
“Well….” The thing was, he’d talked so fast that I was having a little trouble sorting out the pros and cons of his offer. “OK, wait. So, I’m driving my car with your plates…and you’ll let me use them as long as I give you a ride to and from work?”
“You got it!”
“But what are you gonna do when you’re home? I can’t let you have my car because I need it for my part-time job.”
“No sweat! I got a couple of civilian buddies that’ll be there for me, and besides I’ll be staying at my girlfriend’s house most nights anyway.”
“Oh, I thought you said you were married.”
“I am—for the time being.”
I suddenly understood why his wife was probably leaving him.
“Well, why can’t you use your girl’s car to go to work?”
“Two reasons. First, she needs the car for her job in Kansas City. Second, her car doesn’t have an NAS bumper sticker that allows the car to enter the base. Yours does.”
It was all coming too fast for me and I was not sure if what he was suggesting would help me at all. Although, I could see where it would help him.
“OK look, let me think about this and I’ll get back to you. We still have some time anyway.”
“Sure thing, man. Just let me know.”
“Oh, one other thing. I don’t have a Kansas inspection sticker on my windshield. You get those before they license the car.”
“Again, no sweat! I’ll just scrape mine off and transfer it to yours. Unless you’re stopped by the cops, no one will be able to read the back of that thing anyway.”
Well, everything sure sounded OK, and the temporary plate switch would certainly alleviate, at least temporarily, my problem in registering the car. That evening I discussed the offer with Sharon, and we both finally agreed that even though we knew we were bending the law somewhat, the deal would help us out financially.
But like all deals that look too good to be true, this one would prove to be a real doozy.
Two Lives, Separate Ways
By June 1964, I was working my normal day shifts as an Intercept Control Technician at the Air Force squadron I was assigned to, and four nights a week I was now the head fry cook at Custer’s Last Stand.
My Air Force job required me to direct fighter jets (interceptors) on my radar to intercept and shoot down invading enemy bombers. Using closing speeds and calculating intercept trajectories, I would be in direct contact with the fighter pilots, vectoring them to a position 3-5 miles behind the bomber, allowing them to fire their missiles and shoot the intruder down.
Of course, the bombers were usually B-52s or B-58 Hustlers, flying out of Offutt Air Force Base in Nebraska, and sent on simulated bombing runs to theoretically blow Kansas City off the face of the earth. Our fighters were F-104s, and a few F-101 Voodoos, and it was their job to blow the bombers out of the sky before they reached Kansas City—and my job to put the fighters in the proper position in order for them to do that. Sometimes we won, and sometimes they won—but it was all in fun, as the bombs and missiles were all simulated.
Meanwhile, over at the drive-in: I had mastered the art of frying ten to twelve hamburger patties on a hot steel grill at the same time, and when done slapping them on buns to create the Custer Burgers as noted on the little green order slips hung with clothes pins on a wire over my head.
The broaster proved to be less of a challenge than I thought it would be. Basically a huge deep fryer with a securely locked lid, I would put frozen, breaded pieces of chicken on a metal screen basket suspended over boiling hot oil. Then I would close and securely lock the broaster’s heavy lid, set the timer and wait for the chime to tell me the chicken was done. The chicken was basically deep fried under extreme pressure—allowing it to be fully cooked in a matter of minutes.
With the broaster it was not the cooking that was difficult, it was the weekly cleaning and changing of oil that was complicated and very hazardous.
After I finished my shifts at the naval air station, I would drive home and Sharon would then drive me to the hamburger joint. That way she could have the car the rest of the evening in order to do the shopping and run the errands she needed to. She would then drive back and pick me up when I finished at Custer’s. If she needed the car in the daytime, say for a doctor’s appointment, she would have to drive me to, and pick me up from, the naval air station.
Once I got home in the evenings on Mondays through Thursdays, I would literally crash into bed completely exhausted, having worked four 15 to 16 hour days. Although the money was coming in handy, I didn’t realize how much I was missing seeing my boys grow up or how much Sharon and I had stopped communicating. The boys would be asleep when I left in the morning and sleeping when I got home at night. The only times I had a chance to interact with them and my wife was on Friday evening and on the weekends.
That however, was soon to change…but not for the better.
***
I had been asked by Dale Custer one week if I would be able to come in on a Friday night to work. There was a big sporting event taking place in Olathe, and he anticipated a large crowd. He offered to pay me time-and-a-half, and said he planned to keep the drive-in open until midnight.
After checking with Sharon, I agreed to work the extra shift, being that it would bring me a fairly large paycheck at the end of the following week.
As promised, business was brisk in the early evening, then got absolutely out of control around nine o’clock. My finished orders were piling up and getting cold on the counter and I began to complain about the how slow the waitresses were.
The cashier on the register agreed with me and said that she was seeing that some of the girls were spending an inordinate amount of time on a couple of cars full of boys.
“They’re out there flirting instead of running the orders out.” She finally said, after taking a look out the door.
I scolded a couple of them for wasting time when they finally came in to take my orders out, and one of them went crying to Dale, who had just driven in to see how things were going.
“Hey Frank,” Dale said, coming around the corner into the cooking area. “One of the girls said you gave her a bunch of crap because you thought she was too slow in taking out the orders.”
I pushed my little paper hat back on my head and vented my frustrations at Dale. I mentioned that if the girls weren’t spending so much time flirting with the guys in their cars, we could probably double our output.
Another one of the girls, picking up an order, overheard my comment and said sarcastically, “Well, if you think you can do better why don’t you tie an apron on and get your ass out here and run some orders?”
Dale doubled up laughing and pointing at me said, “Now wouldn’t that be something…you’d look awful cute carhopping.”
Not to be outdone, I said, “You know Dale, I could probably do a much better job out there than they are. At least I wouldn’t be out there flirting with the boys!”
To my amazement, Dale said, “You know, you may be right. Let me take over the grill and go find yourself an apron and a money changer. You’re gonna carhop for me the rest of the night.”
And that’s how I became the first male carhop at Custer’s Last Stand, in Olathe, Kansas, in 1964!
***
After working for a couple of weeks as a carhop, I found that I enjoyed doing this much better than being a fry cook. Although my hourly pay was less (Dale said he had to pay me at the same hourly rate as the girls—anything more wouldn’t be fair) the tips that I made helped me far exceeded my previous weekly salary. Within a few days of carhopping, I guess word spread around Olathe and the business began to increase. Orders would come into the cashier with the stipulation that they be run out by that “guy carhop”. I was a mini-celebrity.
To keep up with the increase in orders, I began to run out the orders by literally…well, running. As soon as I picked up the order from the warming counter I would arrange it on a car window tray and run out of the building. After delivering the order and getting paid, I would run back to pick up the next order. The girls thought I was just being silly and made comments to each other, and whoever else would listen that if Dale made them run their orders they’d quit on the spot. He didn’t.
One evening after I’d served an order to a man and his wife and was picking up the empty tray, he gave me a dollar. I asked him if he wanted change back—as most of my tips were in the twenty-five to thirty cent range, and he said no.
“What time do you get off work tonight?” He asked.
That stopped me cold. I glanced over at his wife, a very attractive blond, and wondered if I’d heard him correctly.
“Sorry,” I said, “I didn’t catch that.”
“What time do you get off work tonight?” He repeated, with a little grin. “Hey,” he said, suddenly getting it. “I’m not trying to pick you up.” He said, laughing. “I just want to discuss a business proposition.
“Business proposition?” I asked, a little mystified.
“Yeah. I’ll tell you all about it later. So what time do you finish?”
“Well, tonight we close at ten…so my wife will be here about ten-fifteen to drive me home.”
“OK, ten-fifteen it is. Oh, and my name is Billy and this here’s my wife Donna.” And off he drove.
When Sharon drove up I told her about the guy. “And what does he want?” She asked.
“I don’t know.” And just then Billy pulled in, in his nice new black Dodge Charger.
I introduced him (his wife did not accompany him back) to Sharon, and he asked us if we wanted to go to the local all-night diner for some coffee. “Well, we’ve got the kids in the car. We don’t like to leave them home alone when Sharon comes to pick me up.”
He peeked into the back seat of our Chevy and saw Ricky and little Frank sleeping.
“OK, we can just discuss this here then.”
“OK.”
“Billy Williams is my name.” And he shook Sharon’s and my hand. “And my wife and I come here quite often for a burger and a malt. And we were just amazed when you showed up as a car hop.”
“Well, I worked inside as a fry cook until the girls pissed me off one night by not running my orders out fast enough. They dared me to do better, so here I am.”
“Cool! All right, so here’s the deal. Have you seen the gas station on the east access road of I35 northbound to Kansas City?”
“Um no, I don’t think so.”
“Anyway, that’s my station. “Quality Oil” is her name.”
“OK.”
“So, it just so happens that I need a night attendant… but the last two guys I hired turned out to be duds. They just wanted to sit around and read magazines. Plus, we get a lot of large semi traffic—that’s where the money is, you know—fifty to sixty gallons at a pop—sometimes more if both saddle tanks are empty. Anyway, they didn’t want to get up on top and clean the windshields, and such, so I let them go.”
“OK.”
“So, I’m offering you the job. And I’m doing that because my wife and I noticed how you bust your ass running around delivering your orders. Fastest carhop in Olathe. I figure that’s the way you like to work.”
“Well, I’m not really looking for another job right now.”
“Didn’t think you were. But I’ll make it worth your while. Whatever they’re paying you here I’ll add a dollar an hour, plus you can fill your gas tank whenever you need, for free.”
“Wow, that’s pretty generous.” I said to Sharon, shaking my head.
“And,” Billy continued, “It ain’t nothing learning how to pump gas and take the pump readings at the end of the day.”
“Oh, I know how to do all that…I worked at a Chevron station in Nevada.”
“Well, there you go! Experience and everything! Plus, I’d want you to work every evening, and sometimes on Saturday or Sunday. That way I’m home with Donna and she’ll be off my ass for working too much. Plus, look at the extra money you’ll be making. What do you say? Deal?”
“I need to talk to Sharon about this. How about I let you know in a couple of days?”
“Fair enough! Here’s my card with my number at the station. Let me know as soon as you can.”
And…that was that!
After Sharon and I talked it over, we decided that it was too good a deal to let pass. So I gave my notice to Dale and started working evenings at the Quality Oil gas station two weeks later. The evening shifts started at 4PM, and after closing and cleaning up, I left the station every evening at 11PM.
Sharon and I had high hopes that the extra money would help us get out of debt quicker, but alas, we were too young and inexperienced to realize that there are things that are much more important than money. And, albeit too late, we both would discover that too much time away from each other would eventually do irreparable harm to our marriage.
That lesson, though, would come later, and cause us both much pain and anguish.
To be continued…
