The Dailey Girls

My adolescent behavior was just that – exploring, testing, and not getting caught at having too much fun. At sixteen, I was one of a few guys in our small town to have a car. My ’53 Ford was shackled with hooded lights and custom grill – kind of cool for a teenage budget. It was a hot July evening; my folks were expecting me to go to a friend where I sometimes stayed over. I left having second thoughts, went uptown to see what was happening, and chatted with the local guys. At a lull, Ron shouted, “Hey, let’s go pick up the Dailey Girls.” I smiled and nodded my head for the two to get in. They knew I had a connection with the older Judy, and my brother had dated Joan. Judy was 21. She had called me several times that spring, and we had met for a movie once. I was not quite sure how to handle the situation. She was far more voluptuous than the teenage girls whom I was familiar with. Rumor had it she had been in prison for passing bad checks. This was not the kind of person you took home to meet the parents, so I left the advances to her.
Three sisters lived out in the sticks of Ray Road. Their father was said to have a shotgun loaded for those that disturbed his household. Ron said we just had to drive by slowly to attract the girls, wait around the curve, and the girls would sneak out after dark. The first pass proved they were home, but no one was getting our signal. I rebuffed their tactic, dropped the guys around the curve, drove into the driveway, and Judy came out to talk. She said they could sneak out in half an hour and join us around the bend.
My car was filled with suppressed giggles as we sped away in a party mode. The first stop was to let Judy buy a case of beer, and I drove to the safety of our known wheat field to frolic in the moonlight for some underage drinking. The ration was four beers each, which left the younger girls very boisterous. I was content, but Joan insisted on a hamburger. My thought was that the Domino Drive-in had little business, so we might get by without too much trouble. I pulled up to a speaker in the second row and called in our order. My transmission had been stuck in third gear since drag racing on Woodward Avenue a few weeks before, so I needed to be aware that reverse gear was not available.
Suddenly Joan pushed on my seat and exclaimed she needed to go to the bathroom. She and younger sister Sonja got out went into the restroom in the side door of the building. I stood leaning on the open car door watching the lightning on the horizon so typical for a hot July night. Then came a ‘crash-bang’ from the bathroom, and Joan walked out with the Kotex machine in her arms. Stunned, I fell back as she dropped it onto my front seat. I looked to the building, and the owner was strutting towards us. I grabbed the machine and booted the girls back into the car. Perspiration overtook me on the long walk to the bathroom. I babbled something about returning the next day to repair the damage to the owner, who said nothing but glared right through me. The carhop met me with a taunting grin at my return to the car, “Please don’t leave the tray. We cannot stay.” My third gear takeoff seemed more arduous than usual.
By the time the others consumed the burgers, the rain was upon us. Soon all but Judy and I were asleep in the backseat. Visibility was terrible, and it was a slow-go down Ray Road. I had forgotten about the approaching hill and did not have enough speed to reach the top in third gear. I had let it roll back for another start but not enough to make it to the top. Then Joan came alive in the silence of the car and torrent of the rain, “What’s going on here?” She was quick to get out in the pouring rain and push my car farther back for a better start. Good enough to get us over the hump. By the time we reached their homestead, the rain had lapsed, and I stopped beyond the curve. We had a few head-shaking laughs to say goodbye, but the young Sonja was out-like-a-light. Judy said that I would need to carry her to the house. Gulp! “What about your dad’s shotgun?” “No worries, he starts drinking at nine, and by eleven, he’s unconscious till morning.” I was not convinced, but being the only able-bodied guy awake, duty called. With Sonja in arms, I crouched as low as I could to the fruit cellar door. As it opens, the sound would awaken any old drunk, but they insisted I carry her into the basement. Once there, Judy asked in the most tender way to help take her to bed. At that, I laid Sonja on the basement floor, scurried out, and made evasive maneuvers to my car. No shots were fired, no virtues lost. Would we be who we are without such times ‘growing up’?