The Woodie

May 2008.

Beulah United Methodist Church. Bowling Green, Ohio.

The old Dairy Queen was located half a mile from downtown Bowling Green on Wooster St., next to the old railroad track. Most people in the area lived out on farms, earning a living from modest harvests, or unemployment benefits, though some owned shops downtown, and some manned those storefronts, usually for minimum wage, which was around a buck fifty an hour back then. Others were students at the university or worked there, the former group providing a consistent source of ruckus as well as patronage for the local food and booze establishments. I worked the fryers and the grill at the Dairy Queen, a popular hang-out for overweight local families and zit-faced college kids. I used to go to the university, but I dropped out to work the fast food industry, not sure why. I probably decided my money'd be of better use for beer than books.

The lady whose shift succeeded my own was late on this one Saturday night, back in 1971, so I had to cover her shift, even though I'd sorta made plans to see a movie with a girl friend of mine. But, whatever, I figured if I gave this lady a favor, she'd owe me one in the future too, so to hell with it, I told myself, I'll work late tonight. This Dairy Queen franchise was locally owned by a decently well-off family, the Paulsons, the misses of the family owning a bead store on Main St. as well, right next to Grounds for Thought, the local coffee joint, which also featured a used bookstore, which itself sported a disproportionally large amount of erotic fiction intended for post-menopausal women. I think the restaurant changed hands a few years back, though I can't be too sure, since I haven't worked there in a long while.

So the story this lady — the one whose shift I covered, without any incentive at the time, or word from her about her tardiness — told me was enough to make staying at the ol' Dairy Queen until 1120 PM, past closing time to clean up, being the responsible worker I am, worth it. This lady, her name is Bertha, if I remember correctly, Bertha got to the Dairy Queen at 1120, right as I was about to lock up, and helped me clean and lock up, the guy who handled the ice cream being a bit too stoned to be of use, or at least I think he was too damn stoned, the man knew how to combine ice cream flavors though, I'll tell you that much. Bertha told me the story that justified her lateness, and I tell you what, this woman was uninhibited when it came to telling stories, I dunno if just to me, or everyone, or what the hell her deal was, but I just about popped a boner when she told me this tale.

Bertha drove an old Ford Country Squire station-wagon, the one with the fake wood trim from the late '50s or early '60s. She referred to her car with mock-affection as the "Woodie," since that's what the real wood cars used to be called, "Woodies." (I know what you're thinking -- get your mind outta the gutter!) This particular day Bertha was rolling down state highway 25 at quite a leisurely pace — which, mind you, on this stretch of road people usually can't drive all too fast on, since the highway patrol is located right near — when her engine started sputtering and hissing more than usual, and just about quit on her. She pulled frantically to the side of the road, she says to me, enveloped by plumes of smoke wafting out of her engine, smelling like possum shit on a bonfire. After ten minutes of arm-fanning and swearing and general discontent, a local in a green pick-up notices her plight as he himself rockets down the highway, and stops to lend a neighborly hand. Back in those days, people weren't afraid to help out people they didn't know.

The kind sir who lent his aid to Bertha I do not know the identity of; I assume he was a farmer going into town for supplies, or maybe he was just a passing traveler, but usually I'd imagine people taking a thru-route on the interstate, not highway 25. I digress, resourceful handyman that this guy was, he was able to get Bertha's Woodie running for at least the time being. Let me pause here to relay some details about Bertha. She was a comely girl, and, I ain't gonna lie, it's not like I've never had a sexual thought about her, but I can't say I was ever inspired to take action in a proactive sexual manner. Bertha had long, wavy lustrous black hair; it glowed under the florescent lights of the Dairy Queen storefront, though she didn't seem all too grimy either. So at this point in the story, where Bertha was saved by this anonymous altruistic do-gooder, Bertha said to me, with a scarlet blush painted across her face, she couldn't hold back from an expression of her thankfulness for this man. She said she couldn't abide by mere playfulness; she could settle for restraint, mere sexual tension — she was a woman of expression. So she took it to the next level.

Faster than the good Samaritan could say "I'm married" Bertha had him wallowing in the sweat of passionate lovemaking. Leading the man to the back of her car, she stripped off his khaki work pants in a hurry, and along with them his underwear, and began kissing the base of his cock before nibbling on his abdomen, leaving behind a trail of sticky saliva wherever her mouth roamed. He had no chance to refuse — she was young, as beautiful as girls in this town get, and oh so supple, especially in the eyes of an older man who probably hadn't had too many chances to copulate with younger ladies since his youthful days left him. Bertha demanded this transaction occur, she insisted to me, the man, the good gentleman, deserved more than a "Thank you" or a good cock-tease. This was the real deal, the transfer of sex for good karma she'd been pining for in her past few weeks of celibacy. She howled and moaned at the pace of his animalistic grunts as the old station-wagon gyrated to and fro from the heaves of their lovemaking. The windows were plastered in the humidity of intensely sensuous fucking within minutes; from an outsider's view it sounded as if a coyote were trying to mate with a tiger. The two momentary lovers rolled around in their pool of sweat and semen, unable to pause their humping, just continuing onto the next journey of carnal expression each time the man came. He groaned that he hadn't had sex in years. Bertha placed a finger upon his lip and upon performing her next move, he bit it both playfully and firmly. They were intertwined like two serpents appreciating each other's contours. Soon, however, there was an interruption in the lusty tidings.

Blue and red lights faded into the spectrum of light in the back of Bertha's steamy car. The lovers heard a car engine turn off and a door open and close, then the sound of footsteps. They were sweaty enough each glistened under the shine of the cop's flashlight as he inspected the scene of the two illegally parked cars on the side of the road. A routine duty of a highway patrolman, although this time, with benefits. He had seen people making love in cars before, he later told Bertha, but he'd never seen two people so eager to fuck like bunnies in heat. He tapped on the side window with his flashlight, and Bertha swung her body around, opening the latch of the hatchback and peering up at the enforcer of mortal law. "Hello, officer... would you mind if I handled your gun?" Bertha panted, her sweaty breasts glistening with the aqueous beads of a thousand lascivious heaves, as she tried to catch her breath.

"What's going on here?" the police officer asked rhetorically. Bertha's lay was hurriedly putting on his clothing, attempting to conceal the recent acts of lust, and making a mess in doing so. Bertha told him to lay back down and relax; she'd sort all this out. She took his button-up shirt and wrapped it around the front side of her body, opened the trunk, and stepped out to facilitate interrogation from the officer. A few minutes later, though, the cop slammed her against the back of the car, jolting it forward, and they embraced with the intensity of two lovers who were parted for years but finally reunited. The cop lifted her up the back bumper of the car and penetrated her, moving his body up and down quickly, as if they had only seconds to live; he squeezed her sides with the force of a mechanical claw. The cop was more sloppily salacious than the farmer, and much more violent, but he didn't hurt her — he just made her scream with passion and screech loud enough that the farmer thought her eyes were being torn out by some sort of feral bird.

The cop came quickly, soon after Bertha, and she considered the experience a record low time for her coming. They both slumped against the back of the car, and the irate farmer opened the door and demanded they both get inside. "Might be a bit crowded," the cop said. Bertha could smell alcohol on his breath. Bertha opened up the back and she and the cop entered. First the farmer took Bertha for a ride, entering from behind, probing her taint, then the cop took turns intermittently, then something strange happened: the cop and the farmer began kissing, astounding Bertha, but also delighting her, free spirit that she was. They all took turns playing with each other until another cop call showed up, wondering why three cars were on the side of the road, one of them an unresponsive cop. From there the story became less exciting, as Bertha ran out of steam as a raconteur and I expressed my intentions to leave the Dairy Queen and return home. I recall her mentioning the other cop was sorta offended by the scene, and left abruptly, but she imagined the lusty cop probably would be reprimanded. Ultimately, it sounded as if this was an empowering experience for Bertha, and as she told me the tale I observed a glow in her eye brighter than I would ever see in our future time together. She quit Dairy Queen a couple years later, and I imagined she left town, but, as I only recently found out she stayed here, as did I, regardless of our dreams of breaking free and finding a new lot in life, outside of B.G.

So, on this day, as we lay Bertha LeMott to rest, let us remember her sexual virility, and the energy with which she embraced her fellow participants in this the wondrous journey of life.