I Think I'm Gonna Stay with You...

It's another return to those so-called thrilling days of yesteryear, this time to June of 1971. Nixon sat in the Oval Office, the Rolling Stones' Brown Sugar topped the Top 40 charts and Summer of '42 and Billy Jack played at the box office. Hot pants were all the rage and leisure suits were on the horizon. What we later took for granted, cell phones, personal computers, VCRs, CDs, the World Wide Web, etc., were still ideas percolating in the fertile minds of people for whom the phrase, the future is now, really meant something.

It was also the month I turned eighteen, still too young to drink legally but old enough for admission into one of those Friday night dances sponsored by the Powhatan Mills Fire Department.

Powhatan Mills then was a rural farming community, not the sprawling, built-up suburb it became a generation later. Its fire department was a volunteer affair operating out of a modest red brick firehouse on Main Street. On Friday nights they sponsored mixers for the 18 to 21-year-old set. "Lot's of hot poon," a friend had told me, and poon, hot, cold or lukewarm, topped my wish list in those first heady days after high school graduation. So, taking separate cars, I met my friend Jeff there.

Upon entering, it didn't take long before we realized that we were out of our element. We were prep school boys from Dorchester Park, an upper-middle class area in the city. Our dads were professionals, doctors, lawyers, engineers, corporate businessmen. These kids were from working class families, sons and daughters of diesel mechanics and farmers, plumbers and electricians. They dressed the part and looked the part. Many of the boys donned jeans with boots and wore their hair short. For the girls, it was tight jeans, Capri pants or shorts, and there were lots of them to chose from—some hot, some not, but apparently available.

We paid our two-buck cover fee and then took seats in folding chairs lined up against the wall. More girls were dancing than boys, many with each other. There was no live band, just a twenty-something deejay spinning a stack of 45s. We got "looks," a sure sign to us that these people knew we weren't from around these parts. If our duds didn't give us away—our creased and cuffed, semi-dress slacks, stripped button-down shirts and loafers—our hair did, worn below the ears per what our cultural kind considered cool at the time.

We sat there a while, evaluating the situation, trying to get comfortable. We might have left if not for a couple girls we had in our sights, including a cute little blond in white shorts. To my mind, she oozed sexuality, raw and raunchy, whether she was dancing with another girl or sitting across the dimly lit room with her legs crossed, sipping a soft drink from a clear plastic cup. Using a World War One metaphor, I said, "Okay, it's over the top we go," when the deejay put on Tina Turner's Proud Mary.

Upon my approach, she looked sideways at her girlfriend and chuckled, as if to say, 'are you kidding?' Then, to my surprise, she stood up and let me lead her to the middle of the dance floor. Mingling with the crowd, we bounced and shuffled our way through the song's spirited rhythm. The noise made conversation impossible, so I tried to communicate through smiles and eye contact. She averted my efforts, glancing around the room as if she was looking for someone she knew. When the song ended, she thanked me, then returned to her seat without looking back.

"Well, I tried," I told Jeff after sitting down. "She's apparently not interested."

"You give up too easy, Marc," he said. "Get her on a slow number." Jeff knew that even the anticipation of being shot down made me nervous. "Oh, come on. You've got nothing to lose. These chicks aren't exactly high class."

High class or not, I felt anxious approaching her again when The Temptations' "Just My Imagination" started spinning. "One moment," she said, putting her index finger up. Then, after scanning the room, she nodded and took my hand.

"Expecting someone?" I asked after the song's opening bars ("each day through my window I watch her as she passes by...").

She shrugged. Ignoring my question, she said, "I love this song, don't you?"

I nodded, told her that the Temptations were my favorite Motown group. The music was soft enough to where we could hear each other. As we danced at close to arms length, I introduced myself, and she responded. Connie was her name. She couldn't have stood more than five-three. I was around five-nine, and her head came just up to my chin. I tried to get something going using that old shopworn standby: "Do you live around here?"

"I do but I bet you don't," she said. I shrugged. "Thought so." She made no attempt to hide her smug gratification when I revealed where I lived. "I can spot you Joe College prep types from a mile away." Then she looked away, singing along with the music: "but it was just my imagination running away with me..."

"It sounds like you're not too crazy about us prep types," I said.

That got her attention. Turning to me, she leaned back and said, "Not true at all. Sorry, I didn't mean to come off that way." She looked sincere, staring up at me with her pretty, blue-gray eyes.

"That's okay," I said. "I guess it is kind of obvious."

She gave me a warm smile. "Just relax, Marc." She stepped closer and snuggled against my chest. "This should make you feel better."

It did. I felt the fine contours of her body, firm and compact. Her hair, styled in a shoulder-length shag, smelled as if she just shampooed it. We talked through the last minute of the song, and in that one minute, I learned that she had graduated from Powhatan High the year before and cashiered at Sears to save money for college.

When the song ended, she again glanced around the room as if she was expecting someone. This time she looked worried, afraid that whomever she had in mind would catch her doing something wrong. "Well, nice meeting you," she said when the song ended. She headed back to her seat before I could reach out to dance another slow one, the Carpenters' "For All We Know."

Jeff was still on the dance floor, making time with a longhaired brunette when I returned to my seat. Looking across the room, I saw a tall, raw-boned guy walk over to Connie. From their animated conversation, they appeared to know each other. Then he started looking at me, pointing to me while conversing with her. It looked like they were arguing. The next thing I knew, he was taking long strides across the room, headed right for me. "Hey pal," he said, "do you always make a habit of dancing close with another guy's girlfriend?"

Too stunned to respond right away, I sized him up, from his brown, greasy hair with a spit curl plastered over his forehead to his sinewy arms and lightly freckled face. He wore jeans and a plaid, short-sleeved shirt—typical for a native son of Powhatan Mills.

"Girlfriend?" was all I could think to say in response.

"Girlfriend. Steady girlfriend," he said emphatically, folding his arms across his chest. "Connie's my steady girlfriend. Got it?"

"I didn't know."

"Well, now you do."

I didn't take kindly to someone telling me who I could or could not dance with. On the other hand, as noted, I was an outsider, perhaps an interloper in his eyes. Still, no Powhatan Mills hick was going to push me around. "Connie didn't seem to mind," I said, standing up to face him.

"Dude, don't press your luck with me," he said. His arms went from his chest to his sides, slightly bent.

We glared at each other, standing just inches apart. He had reach and height on me, though I surmised that he wasn't as strong, not unless he could bench press over 300 pounds, doubtful. He was tall and wiry, where I was on the stocky side. But I wasn't a fighter, preferring to settle matters with words, not fists. "Look, man," I said, "if you have a beef it's with Connie, not me. She didn't say a word about having a steady boyfriend."

Before he could respond, three people came on the scene—Jeff after his slow dance, my nemesis' friend and Connie. "Bobby, that's enough," she said. Turning to me, she said, "Sorry, Marc, I wasn't sure he'd be here."

Now it made sense why she had perused the room. The last thing I wanted was to get in the middle of what appeared to be a lovers' dispute. "This is none of my business," I said, throwing my hands up.

"You damn right it ain't," Bobby barked, and then grabbed Connie's arm in an attempt to lead her back across the room.

When she resisted, Bobby's friend stepped in. He looked a few years older, built somewhat like me. I imagined he developed his muscles from pitching hay rather than pumping iron in a gym: au naturel. "Let her go, man," he advised, "before you get us both thrown out of here."

Bobby stood there, red-faced and fuming, as angry at his friend's refusal to back him up as the perceived threat to his amour. Looking at me, he said, "Just don't let me catch you dancing with her again."

"He can if he wants to," Connie said.

Ignoring her comment, Bobby, with his friend in tow, took a seat against an adjacent wall.

"We broke up," Connie said. "He's been trying to woo me back, but I'm no longer interested."

"But it looks like he hasn't given up," I said, watching Bobby glaring at us from across the room.

"You're not afraid of him are you?" Given the venue, I took this as a challenge to my manhood.

Jeff chuckled. "He's not afraid of anyone." It wasn't true but I knew he meant well.

"Well then," she said, taking my hand, "let's get out there."

The DJ was spinning The Dells' "Oh What A Night," an old pop standard released a couple years before. I hesitated, watching Bobby's I-dare-you glare.

Jeff made a beeline for his brunette, while I stared warily at Bobby.

"Ignore him, Marc," Connie said. "He's out of the picture."

It wasn't easy not knowing what Bobby might or might not do. On the other hand, it wasn't easy to ignore this sexy little blond who seemed interested enough in me to blow off her menacing looking ex-boyfriend.

After we hit the dance floor, she not only snuggled against me, she started into a pelvis grinding routine. Ordinarily, I would have met her halfway, except I didn't fully trust her. For all I knew, she was using me to make Bobby even angrier. Still, I couldn't resist dropping my hand to her butt, one of those incredibly high and firm female butts that you could set a glass down on.

Looking across the room, I saw the friend throw an arm across Bobby's chest in an effort to restrain him. 'I'll take care of it,' the friend seemed to say, before he came over to us.

He tapped me on the shoulder. "Hey man, if you know what's good for you, you'll keep your hands to yourself. Bobby's riled enough. Don't get him madder."

We stopped dancing. Connie then turned around and said, "What's it to you, Henry?"

A forty-something fire hall staffer then came over to us. "Is there a problem here?"

Connie pointed to Henry. "There wasn't until this guy tried to create one."

Looking back at Bobby, I could see that his restraint, such as it was, had reached its limit.

Sure enough, he rose from his seat and bounded over. "Tell this loafer wearn' Joe College dude to get his hands off my girl's ass," he barked to the staffer.

"I'm not your girl!" Connie snapped.

She and Bobby argued back and forth for a few moments before the staffer told them to either settle down or take it outside. Henry suggested to Bobby that they leave, that it wasn't worth it. When Bobby protested, Henry winked, took him by the arm and led him to the door.

Connie knew as well as I that they weren't going anywhere, that they'd wait on the parking lot until we came out. "You and your friend might have to fight your way out of here," she said. "Bobby, especially, can be a violent guy, and Henry will contain him for only so long. He'll back him up if need be."

Jeff wandered in from the dance floor, the brunette hanging on his arm. He introduced her as Sheila. Tall and thin, her light brown hair, parted in the middle, hung to the middle of her back. She wore an orange dress hemmed a couple inches past her knees and low heels with straps. Connie didn't know her but said she'd seen her before at these dances.

I explained to Jeff what we might be facing. "Now what?" is all he could say.

"You guys look like you can take care of yourselves," Sheila commented. Standing six-foot two and weighing close to 230, Jeff did for sure. However, like me, he wasn't a fighter.

We spent the next half hour dancing and making small talk before I suggested we all go out for something to eat. Sheila declined, but Connie was game, said she'd be willing to ride in my car, a light blue '67 Pontiac LeMans convertible, as long as I'd be willing to take her home. Of course, I said yes, gleeful over the night's exciting possibilities. Presumably, the only thing standing in my way was an angry ex-boyfriend and his buddy. I couldn't know for sure until I left the building.

Once Jeff, Connie and I did, presumption gave way to angst. The two jumped from a Chevy pickup and confronted us on the asphalt lot. Bobby, standing beside Henry with his arms folded against his chest, said, "Bad things can happen to people that don't listen."

Henry nodded. "I can't contain him anymore," he said. The sick, sadistic smile creasing his thin lips told me that he didn't try too hard.

"Back off," Connie ordered. "I'll go back in and get an escort if need be."

My car sat parked a few yards behind them, so making a break for it wasn't an option—at least a clean break. I'd have to smash my way past them, not a pleasant option. Telling Connie to forget it might win me a reprieve. I'd look cowardly in her eyes, but what the hell, I'd likely never see her again. Not feeling entirely comfortable with that idea, I thought trying to reason with these guys might be worth a shot, a long shot but we had nothing to lose.

"Look, you're making too much out of this," I said. "We're just going out for a bite to eat."

Bobby hurled a wad of spit on the ground. "I don't give a shit, you ain't leaving here with her."

"That did it," Connie said. She then turned to go back inside, leaving me to my fate. Jeff, loyal friend that he was, stuck by me.

Throwing caution to the wind, I decided to have some fun. "You two just spoiled what could have been a lovely Friday night in Powhatan Mills," I said. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves." I flashed them a smart-aleck grin.

Jeff looked at me as if to say, 'are you fucking crazy?'

Our enemy glanced at each other and smirked. "You hear that, Bobby? We ought to be ashamed."

They stepped forward with clenched fists. "You're messing with the wrong people," Bobby said.

"Let's fuck 'em up" was the last thing I heard before they were in our faces and fists started flying. Being a wrestler, not a boxer, I dove for Bobby's legs. We both went down, rolled a few times before I gained the upper hand. He rolled to his stomach, then struggled to get up. It didn't work, not with me sitting on his lower leg, bent at the knee, and my forearm pressed hard against his neck. Jeff was on his butt with a bloody mouth, shielding his face with his arm, as a cowboy-booted Henry threatened to kick him. Going to his aid would free Bobby, so I stayed put. Fortunately, adult staffers came running out and broke it up.

Connie stood there, shaking her head. "I'm so sorry, Marc." My knuckles were skinned and bleeding, something she noticed before I did.

The staffers stayed outside, told a belligerent Bobby and Henry they'd call the police if they didn't leave. Reluctantly, they got into the truck, Henry behind the wheel. Bobby stuck his head out the window. "We're not done," he yelled. Then, after revving the engine to several hundred RPMs, Henry peeled away.

One of the staffers turned to us. "We think it's time you kids go, too."

Jeff and I were in complete agreement. Jeff then took off and I was about to, figuring that Connie had had enough as well. Then she said, "What about our plans? We have a date, remember?" I thought she was kidding until she saddled up to me, leaned over, fumbled with the buttons on my shirt and in a voice soft and seductive, said, "You still want to take me out, don't you?"

We went off to Ameche's, a drive-in partly owned by Alan "the horse" Ameche, ex-Baltimore Colt running back. My knuckles hurt as I drove through the balmy June night, though it was a good kind of hurt, worn with pride like a battle scar. This Now that I found myself in had a surreal feel to it. The last thing I expected leaving the sheltered confines of Dorchester Park was getting into a fight with a guy's ex and then driving off with her to Ameche's. But there I was, pulling into a space on the parking lot, skipping my usual preliminary ritual at this place that entailed circling the prefab building with the big neon sign in front, strutting my wheels among the other manly toys of the era, Corvettes, GTOs, Barracudas, Chevelles, et al. In two years hence, director George Lucas would immortalize this time-honored teen ritual in the film American Graffiti. By then, and even in 1971, the best days of the cruising era were over, though husks of it lingered in isolated pockets of suburbia.

We munched on burgers and fries and sipped our Cokes among the noise from souped-up engines and the sound of youthful voices having fun. Connie looked so sexy with her smooth, plump thighs hanging out her white shorts and the nipples of her lovely breasts outlined against the fabric of her yellow blouse. She looked like a Powhatan Mills girl, all right, though I detected something about her that didn't quite fit the image—heightened sensitivity, a keen sense of human nature, raw intelligence.

"You've never been out with a girl like me, I'd bet," she said.

"A girl like you?" I had an idea what she meant.

"One from Hicksville." She chuckled. "From the sticks."

"So I guess that makes you a social climbing parvenu," I said.

"Ah, parvenu, one of my vocabulary words from tenth grade. A social upstart from humble means, right?"

"Right."

"Which could make me Eliza Doolittle to your Henry Higgins."

It about floored me that Connie had even heard of the play Pygmalion, much less the characters. Girls from Powhatan Mills normally weren't that culturally sophisticated.

She continued. "I believe a movie came from that. My Fair Lady?"

"Looks like I'm with a trivia maven," I said. "You know what that is, right?"

"Said like a true preppy snob," Connie said. "Geez."

Apparently, she thought I was being haughty and condescending. "I wasn't talking down to you, honest."

"Well, it sure came out that way."

"Sorry, I didn't mean it to."

She waved her hand in front of me. "Forget it. Now, let's see. Given the context, I'd say maven means some kind of expert."

"Go to the head of the class."

"Been there. Not to brag," she said, "but I did make the dean's list my three years at Powhatan High. With enough savings and financial aid, I should be in college come fall."

"Okay, so I have to ask," I said, thinking back to the fire hall." She nodded. "What's a bright girl like you doing with a guy like Bobby?"

"Past tense, you mean. I'm no longer with him, remember."

"Right."

"But I'll try to answer." With her hand over her mouth, she leaned forward to ponder. "What I saw in Bobby Dyer...hmm...I just thought he was cool at one time. Or my idea of what cool meant two years ago when we met. We were on good time for a while, but then things changed. I had other priorities and grew in ways that Bobby didn't. I moved forward while he stayed the same old Bobby. Plus, I found out that he'd been cheating on me. But even if he'd been loyal, we would've split."