Time Trials

by Lee, Terry

  “Cookies? Girl Scout Cookies?”

  “Yes! Oh God, that’s all I can think about.” She dared another peek at her mother’s emotional angst. “You’ve got to help me, Mom. I can’t go on like this anymore. I need help. Please! People make fun of me at school.” Which wasn’t true because she was well-liked, and people also knew she was capable of delivering a sucker-punch if provoked. But the lie seemed to add flair to the scene. She exaggerated another agonizing sob just for good measure.

  Yeah, she was serious about her need to lose weight, but was tired of trying to figure it out herself, and knew she needed a stiff arm of something. So she resorted to what she did best…over-reacting, a family trait she found extremely useful from time to time. Besides, her drama classes were paying off.

  By the next day her mother had done the needed research. “How about the new Atkins Diet? I think you’ll get faster results.”

  “Yeah, but isn’t that like no carbs? Ever?” Janie was dead-set on losing weight, but she wasn’t crazy. The Atkins Diet had just appeared on the horizon of quick weight loss programs, and although faster results ended up on the plus side, too many of her favorite foods lined up on the negative side. No can do. She’d rather ration than omit. “What else you got?”

  “Weight Watchers.”

  So Weight Watcher’s it was. She hated and loved it at the same time. The program did take time to work, but no exercise was required and she actually lost the weight. So much so, she could finally stomach flipping through the la-de-dah fashion magazines touting covers of Farrah Fawcett, Cheryl Tiegs, and Christie Brinkley. She’d even been able to wear hot pants and miniskirts, which was something she n-e-v-e-r thought would be possible. In fact, she credited her new wardrobe for catching the eye of Buddy, her first boyfriend. They dated for almost a year until he got his draft number, which put the relationship into a nose dive.

  Going off to college, the whole freedom bit was something she’d dreamed of for ages. Now…well, now she didn’t feel quite as excited as she thought she’d be. But, at least she’d have Dena and Frannie, her best friends, and a break from June and Ward. Not her parents’ real names, but they seemed to fit, although Leave It To Beaver had been off the air for what…ten years? Everyone still watched reruns of the Cleaver clan.

  “Is Frannie riding up with Dena?” her mother asked.

  “Are you kidding? The Bennetts would never go for that.” Janie huffed from the back seat. Ridiculous. Here we go again about Dena driving since she was fourteen. She’d never even received a ticket. Still, Ward and June, as well as Frannie’s parents, had concerns about Dena having a car on campus.

  “Well, I just thought—”

  “Would you let me ride up with Dena?” Sometimes parents said the dumbest things.

  “Of course not.” June whipped her head around to the back seat. “Your dad and I aren’t letting go of you a minute before we have to. I can’t even think about seeing your empty room tonight when we get back.” She pulled a Kleenex from her purse.

  Ahh, geez. Here come the waterworks, Janie thought.

  The thing the adults apparently didn’t get was that Dena was light years ahead of Janie or Frannie in maturity. In fact, most teenagers for that matter. Dena not only thought and behaved in a much more adult manner, she cussed like a sailor. Janie never knew anyone who could make the F-bomb sound like an acceptable adjective, which was just Dena’s way. And anyone who knew Dena was well aware of what language rating would most likely fly out of her mouth at any given time. The questionable language didn’t seem adulterated coming from Dena, for some reason. And certainly not reserved strictly for bursts of anger or frustration, but easily parlayed into normal conversation.

  An only child, Dena had picked up her prolific use of the English language from her dad, a Navy man. Her parents were divorced and her dad from time to time would drop out of her life, leaving Beverly, Dena’s mom, to raise her daughter as a single parent. Beverly considered herself a well-refined Southern woman. However, despite her best efforts, she could not break Dena of her trash mouth.

  “You cuss like a sailor!” Beverly would say.

  “Well, it got the fucking point across, didn’t it?” would be Dena’s reply.

  Dena marched to her own drummer, even had her own band for that matter. She said what she thought, and she said what she thought with explicit language. That was Dena and that’s why everyone loved her. That, and her big hair and big smile. She always said she needed the big hair and big teeth to downplay the size of her nose, which was ridiculous because her nose was perfect. Another favorite Dena-ism was “don’t ever leave the house without checking the back of your hair in the mirror.” She had plenty of “isms,” and most always said them in the most colorful ways.

  Ward’s conversation to June brought Janie back to the present.

  “She’s not going to Europe, you know. Sam Houston isn’t that far away.” Her dad had a much more practical hold of his emotions.

  “You’re right!” A quick “ha” escaped June’s mouth. “I could come up sometimes during the week for lunch.” Her mother’s eyes lit up like she’d just won the Betty Crocker Cook Off.

  Straightening in horror in the back seat, Janie caught her dad’s attention in the rearview mirror, shook her head, and mouthed the word nooooooo.

  “No, you won’t.” He winked into the mirror. “Don’t worry, Sugar. I’ll tie her leg to the kitchen table if I have to.”

  “What?” June whipped back in her seat and crossed her arms in a pout. “I can visit my daughter whenever I want to. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

  Smiling as gently as she could, Janie sank down in the back seat, chalked up a point for going away to school, and felt a tad better about the freedom thing.

  Heading off to college and not knowing anyone would be unbearable. If Dena and Frannie had gone somewhere else, she’d be in pure hell. Okay, it was not like she wouldn’t know anybody. Her high school had close to eight hundred graduates. Some of them had to be heading to Sam. But she needed her close friends. Buddy had been in Vietnam since last December. The war seemed to be slowing down, and everyone said it would end soon. But when was soon? Even though they weren’t together anymore, she still wanted him to come back alive.

  ~~~

  On that horrible day in February, her junior year, she had her eyes glued to the auditorium door waiting for Buddy to find her after receiving his draft number. She’d used up every prayer and bargain she could think of to sway God to please keep him there. She knew many other girlfriends, mothers, dads, brothers, and sisters were doing the same. When Buddy finally pushed through the doors of the auditorium, the look on his face told her the prayers hadn’t been enough. He walked right up to her.

  “What…is it?” Janie leaned back against the cold tile wall to steady herself.

  Buddy flipped around a piece of paper that read SELECTIVE SERVICE SYSTEM NOTICE OF CLASSIFICATION.

  “Doesn’t look good, Babe.”

  Below the official seal, Janie’s eyes dropped to the RANDOM SEQ. NUMBER box and his number.

  “Nine?”

  Buddy shrugged. “Yep, that’s it.”

  The lottery, as it was called, was determined by the date of birth. Buddy’s birthday, January 17, 1952, had awarded him number nine.

  Her parents had liked Buddy well enough, they were just concerned with his apparent goal in life…to attend concerts.

  “But what about college…or even a job? What does he want to do with his life? Is he going to work in a garage forever?” her dad had asked.

  Reasonable enough inquiries, Janie thought, but who really knew the answer to the “what do you want to do with your life” question?

  “I don’t know, Dad. He’ll figure it out.” Janie mentally winced, knowing full well that Buddy’s lack of motivation to do much of anything leveled out to be around sea level. Since they’d been together the two of them had seen Elvis, Led Zeppelin, The Who (twice), The Allman Brothers, T
he Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, and the new kids on the block, ZZ Top.

  Janie had to work hard to keep her grades up. Buddy didn’t try and his GPA sucked. Unless his draft number was really high, they both knew the odds of him not being called to active duty weren’t good. And nine was a heartbreaker to Janie.

  Buddy had worked at his Uncle Bob’s garage after school since he was fourteen and seemed perfectly happy with the vocation, more so than keeping up his grades to avoid the draft. He certainly didn’t seem to be as bothered by the low lotto number as Janie.

  That day, last December, after Buddy boarded the plane at Hobby Airport, Janie had tossed Weight Watchers off her to-do list, which meant the weight and Girl Scout cookies were back in. It didn’t take long for the hot pants and miniskirts to be a thing of the past.

  She’d been a social officer in the school drill squad her senior year, which had kept her mind occupied. Thank God for the Social Office, which meant she didn’t have to attend the outdoor practices before and after school. Besides the heat, anyone living in Houston knew humidity was the enemy for someone with curly or frizzy hair. And she curbed the market on frizz, like Lucille Ball after giving herself a home perm.

  When Frannie wasn’t “required” to be with her boyfriend, and Dena didn’t have some new “guy of the week,” the three of them spent a lot of time together. Since Dena had a car, many times they spent hours driving around the neighborhood, the same route every time, checking out the houses of every boy they’d ever liked, and always ended with a stop at Minute Man, the hangout next to the high school.

  Letters to Buddy went out via airmail every six to seven days. About every three weeks she’d get a letter back. He never talked much about being in Nam, which had been understandable. From the newsreels, Vietnam looked pretty much like a hellhole. Although the letter conversations were pretty superficial, after a while Janie noticed a change. His letters were shorter and he wrote less often. His handwriting, though never great, became almost impossible to decipher. She could barely make out the scribbled “Love, Buddy” at the bottom of the letters, which then was shortened to just “Buddy.” The whole effort of writing appeared to be a chore for him. Either something really bad was happening over there or he’d lost interest in her. Whatever the reason, the result was a Dear John/Janie letter she’d received about a month before she headed off to college.

  “Who does that?” she cried. Dena and Frannie came over as soon as they received Janie’s hysterical call. “Who breaks up with their girlfriend when they’re in Vietnam? Isn’t the person at home the one who finds someone else? The one who gets tired of waiting around?”

  The three sat together on Janie’s bed for the rest of that afternoon. Dena and Frannie appeased their friend by indulging in the mound of Girl Scout Cookies piled between them…all flavors.

  Chapter 7

  The Bad Ass Girls – 1972

  Their block of dorm rooms was situated in the middle of the ground floor, two adjoining sets across from each other. They were a strange group and no one would have ever suspected they would bond. Not even them. The only thing the eight had in common was being away from home and on their own for the first time.

  Janie, Dena, and Frannie had all come from the same high school in Houston. With two roommates assigned to a room, Dena, clearly the most self-assured of the three, dissolved the quandary by opting to roll the dice for a roommate.

  “It’s just for a semester, right?” Dena had said. “How bad could it be?”

  Better Dena than Janie or Frannie to end up with Piper Hathaway. Piper hailed from the Dallas-Fort Worth area and apparently had come from a strict parental household. Although dressed perfectly respectful on arrival with her parents, both Sam Houston Alumnae, the rest of the group would become indoctrinated to the new side of Piper within a very short period of time.

  Suzanne and Denise had graduated close to the top of their class from Clear Creek High School, south of Houston. The more quiet and studious of the eight established the subtitle “the good girls” of the group. They provided a balance for the other girls, who were anxious to test the waters of freshman freedom.

  Allison and Regina had not met until they checked into the dorm, which was probably some divine intervention on some level. Both girls were close to six foot and slender. Allison resembled a member of a women’s basketball team, and looked as if she could easily knock you to the ground if the occasion arose. Regina had more of an I’m-attractive-and-I-know-it look, and walked around like the valedictorian of the Wendy Ward Charm School, complete with a crown.

  “Hey, look what I have.” The group had congregated on one of their first nights together in Frannie and Janie’s room when Piper pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

  “Those are disgusting.” Denise curled up her nose when Piper pulled out a lighter. “You’re not going to smoke that, are you?”

  “Yeah, I think I am.” Piper lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply just as she’d seen in the movies, and shoved it toward Allison only seconds before falling on the floor in a horrendous choking-coughing attack. Hardly anyone had tried a cigarette before going to college, but it didn’t take long before they’d all smoked at least one. The “good girls,” Denise and Suzanne, relegated cigarette smoking for late night studying, a concept hardly understood by the others. With the exception of Piper, who quickly developed a pack-a-day habit, the others smoked occasionally, which turned out to be more of a social thing to do.

  Freshman college days were different back in the early ‘70s. At least they were at Sam. Girls—excuse me, women—had an RA (resident assistant), a dorm mother (oh puleassse), and a curfew. Sunday through Thursday the dorm mother stood in attendance precisely at 11:00 PM. At 11:05 the door to the dormitory was locked. This harsh—and for many, ridiculous—rule actually solidified the bond between the group, who tagged themselves the Bad-Ass-Girls. Of course, no one went to sleep directly after curfew. They’d have to scatter and make mad dashes back to their beds for midnight “lights out,” only to reconvene after hearing the RA’s door close once rounds were completed, which left nothing but several hours of good old BAG time.

  ~~~

  The word “adolescent” comes to mind here in the Identity vs Confusion stage, which often coincides with experimentation. Even a toddler would refuse to indulge a second time in something she or he found disgusting, but not a teenager. The need to try, experiment, fit in, look cool, outweighed the mindfulness of critical thinking. Toddlers, unable to achieve critical thinking at that age, backed away from unpleasantness simply because they could without any pressure; peer pressure that is.

  ~~~

  Up until the year the Bad-Ass-Girls started their freshman year at Sam Houston, Walker County had been dry, meaning liquor could not be purchased within the county lines. The powers that be finally realized two things. Hundreds of college students were driving back to campus under the influence after a trip to Montgomery or Trinity County, each a good fifteen miles away from the campus. And—and this “and” was a big one—by keeping Walker County dry, they were literally filling their neighboring counties’ pockets with passed off revenue. In the fall of 1972, the law passed allowing liquor to be sold in Walker County. Shelves of convenient stores quickly filled with beer and wine and liquor stores opened, as did several soon-to-become favorite night spots.

  So by the time the Bad-Ass-Girls hit the campus, little time elapsed before they were inducted into the hall of alcoholic shame; again, with the exception of the “good girls.” The other six quickly became well-versed on how to slip each other in at times past the dorm mother after a fraternity mixer. However, on more than one occasion, the “not-so-good” Bad-Ass-Girls exceeded their consumption level, which required a James Bondish maneuver. A stunt made plausible only because they lived on the ground floor.

  “Hey, we need help out here!” One of the less-imbibed of the six would yell outside their dorm windows. Who provided the S.O.S. call
more often than not became a toss-up, not to mention trying to maintain vertical balance since the dormitory had been perched on a hill. “I know you’re in there, studying…or whatever. We need you!”

  The “good girls” hated, hated, hated these occasions, but couldn’t leave their Bad-Ass sisters out there to their own devices.

  “Oh God, we’re going to get kicked out!” Suzanne panicked every time they were called to duty.

  “C’mon,” Denise fumed, throwing on a sweatshirt over her pajamas and socks for her bare feet. “I don’t like it either, but we’ve got to get ‘em in.” Flinging open the window, she whispered in a yelling sort of way, “We’re coming!”

  Heading up the stairs to the front door, the two devised their diversion technique. They waited in the lobby till the inebriated Bad-Ass-Girls stumbled up the front steps, which signaled Suzanne and Denise to throw themselves at the elderly dorm mother, Miss White, with a plethora of absurd, but hopefully distracting, questions. Once the group had tripped through the door, the “good girls” routinely apologized to the woman in charge for bothering her at such a ridiculous hour.

  Out of the eight, Janie, Allison, and Dena had the most humorous personalities; however, it was always Janie who transposed into a Tourette ’s syndrome victim when drunk. And the affliction usually reared its ugly head at precisely the moment they were trying to be as discreet as possible, like making their way into the dormitory at curfew. The first time Janie yelled a more than slurry “GOOD MORNING, MISS DOVE” to the matronly Miss White, the group realized extreme measures would have to be taken to force Janie to “shut the hell up.” Short of using duct tape, someone would slap a hand over Janie’s mouth while they stumbled past the dorm mother and into the building.

  As stated, the “good girls” hated these evenings, which usually resulted in Denise smoking her token cigarette for studying, just to settle her nerves, while Suzanne shoved a brown bag to her face to ease the hyperventilating. The “good girls” were definitely wusses, but an integral puzzle piece to the sanctity of the group and dearly loved.