Growing Up Then and Now

As she came trolling back I gathered up my belongings to make room, determined not to start any conversation because all I wanted was peace and quiet, have my lunch, read the paper, and let my thoughts drift.  No such luck.  She had a short skirt hiked way up high.  She had high heels.  She had a low cut sweater with bosoms ready to burst out.  She had bright red lips and very long, dark lashes.  I put the four folds of the paper right up to my eyes so we would avoid eye contact.  Lunch would have to wait.  About a minute out of the station she asks how I’m doing.  I ignore her –  although my brain was telling me based on experience ignoring would only lead to worse.  (She was already leaning forward to show me her boobs.)  Sure enough, ten minutes out of Indianapolis, she announces in a loud enough voice so everyone on the bus turned and looked, “I just gave this guy a blow job and now he won’t pay me!”  And what the people saw was me holding a newspaper up as if to avoid detection of any sexual encounter.  Everybody immediately faced forward and never looked back again.

Well, I couldn’t ignore her anymore.  I put down the paper and offered to share my sandwich.  Turns out she rode circuit hooking and was heading home to Nashville with enough money for her family for another month or two.  I was glad, however, when we finally got to Nashville and I could get back to being alone.  Not one passenger looked me in the eye when I walked down the aisle at the next stop – and I never even got a feel.

The one and the same guy a short while later

It was on the next leg to Orlando that I came up with the 96 team names ranked for aptness, although later on I learned they were originally Pistons going up & down the floor in Fort Wayne, Indiana – another city known for manufacturing car parts.   Orlando was another town I couldn’t wait to get to – not just because it was my destination – but because a little kid had taken over the hooker’s seat the stop after Nashville and barfed all over me just at daybreak two hours from Orlando.  One of those college kids had rolled me a joint for later, and I took a quick toke just before dawn in the bathroom keeping as much of the smoke as possible inside me.   Unfortunately dawn was when the kid’s dad, the kid’s younger brother (both sitting in the row right in front of me) woke up, as well as the kid who soon got sick, all to use the bathroom.  Dad blamed me for causing the kid to barf.

I’ve got the short one

It was standing room only at the Turf Club so I took my drink with me to the can and set it on top of the urinal.  The guy next to me comes in and does the same thing.  As he’s peeing and holding his pecker I said “I’ve got the short one” – meaning the drink, but that’s not the way it was understood – which is not the first time I’ve been misunderstood sex-wise.

The University Avenue Scene – a place to (barely) meet other men

Living in Philadelphia in my Center City efficiency one of my great pleasures was gazing out the window at the bustling street scene below, and when I secured a storefront law office on University Av. in St. Paul, with an upstairs apartment to live in (short commute down the stairs and no need for a second telephone line), I couldn’t wait for the first night I could prop my feet up on the window sill and gaze at the traffic passing by.

The Twins were on the radio.  I popped a beer, opened the screen, and had my bare legs (wearing cut-offs only) half out the window.  It was still the top of the first when this car pulled up right under my apartment window and right next to the plate glass window with my law office sign and tel. #.  After a minute I leaned over and glanced out the window.  This guy had slid over to the passenger seat, pulled his pants down to his knees, and was whacking-off gazing straight up at my legs!  The same split second I glanced and saw all this, I yanked my head back in and slid off the chair so I couldn’t be seen.

Waited a minute and crept up to the window to take another peek.  He’s still there looking up.  For the next few minutes I could only crawl around my apartment to avoid observation.  Finally the car drove away . . . . whew.  But he just made a U-turn at the corner and went to the phone booth across the street . . . . and then my phone rang!  He had taken down my phone number! . . . and was now gazing at my window holding the receiver in his hand 25 yards away!   Now I couldn’t even answer the phone in my own house, or stand up!  Finally he hung up and drove away, but that ended my listening to the Twins game with my legs dangling out the window.

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I didn’t even know her name yet

One of the folks Nick mentioned I should call once back in Minnesota, a union organizer, played softball on a men’s softball team and hung out with the pro-IRA Irish crowd.  So now I was playing on two softball teams (read “Riff Raff” story) which was the other reason I’d wanted to move back to Minnesota.  First was that I liked the politics better in Minnesota compared to the intractableness of Philadelphia; and secondly, nobody I knew in Philadelphia played ball.

After our games we hung out in a St. Paul “three-two joint” famous for allowing a little pot smoking at the back tables.  One night while at the bar ordering another pitcher, this very pretty woman asked what’s all the fun about.  Before bringing the pitcher back to the team table, we agreed to meet the next night same time same place.  I didn’t even know her name yet.

Well, of course I show up, and there she is.  We have a beer and tell each other our names.  She says, “Let’s go for a ride in my car.”

Best way to the Lavender Inn

“Okay,” I say.

“Here, you drive,” she tells me, handing me the keys to this shiny Corvette parked out in front, “take the Cross-Town out towards Flying Cloud Airport.”

Well, I had never driven a Corvette before, so already this is a real treat.  She explains that she knows this special thing about the Airport.  I park and then she introduces me to a pilot – turns out to be the pilot she’s taking flying lessons from – and, believe it or not, we’re going for a flight with her in the pilot’s seat.  It’s a tiny Cessna four-seater; I’m in back and the pilot is co-piloting while she’s taking off.   She lands in Faribault (about 75 miles south of the Cities) and there’s a Limo waiting to take just us to the Lavender Inn.  It’s a fancy place and somehow the maître-de already knows my last name (did I tell her it at the bar the first night?), “Right this way Mr. Dawkins; we have a table set for you.”

It was a fabulous dinner, and she insisted on paying.  Back at the airport she tells the pilot to fly us back and we cuddle in the back seat.  Of course I’m already thinking this is the Greatest Date Ever, but there’s still more to come.

Tomorrow:  Finding the Cops

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